Still Missing

STILL MISSING

CHEVY STEVENS

St. Martin's Press New York

For my mother, who gave me an imagination

SESSION ONE

You know, Doc, you're not the first shrink I've seen since I got back. The one my family doctor recommended right after I came home was a real prize. The guy actually tried to act like he didn't know who I was, but that was a pile of crap--you'd have to be deaf and blind not to. Hell, it seems like every time I turn around another asshole with a camera is jumping out of the bushes. But before all this shit went down? Most of the world had never heard of Vancouver Island, let alone Clayton Falls. Now mention the island to someone and I'm willing to bet the first thing out of their mouth will be, "Isn't that where that lady Realtor was abducted?"

Even the guy's office was a turnoff--black leather couches, plastic plants, glass and chrome desk. Way to make your patients feel comfortable, buddy. And of course everything was perfectly lined up on the desk. His teeth were the only damn thing crooked in his office, and if you ask me, there's something a little strange about a guy who needs to line up everything on his desk but doesn't get his teeth fixed.

Right away he asked me about my mom, and then he actually tried to make me draw the color of my feelings with crayons and a sketch pad. When I said he must be kidding, he told me I was resisting my feelings and needed to "embrace the process." Well, screw him and his process. I only lasted two sessions. Spent most of the time wondering if I should kill him or myself.

So it's taken me until December--four months since I got home--to even try this therapy stuff again. I'd almost resigned myself to just staying screwed up, but the idea of living the rest of my life feeling this way...Your writing on your Web site was sort of funny, for a shrink, and you looked kind--nice teeth, by the way. Even better, you don't have a bunch of letters that mean God only knows what after your name. I don't want the biggest and the best. That just means a bigger ego and an even bigger bill. I don't even mind driving an hour and a half to get here. Gets me out of Clayton Falls, and so far I haven't found any reporters hiding in my backseat.

But don't get me wrong, just because you look like someone's grandmother--you should be knitting, not taking notes--doesn't mean I like being here. And telling me to call you Nadine? Not sure what that's all about, but let me guess. I have your first name, so now I'm supposed to feel like we're buddies and it's okay for me to tell you stuff I don't want to remember, let alone talk about? Sorry, I'm not paying you to be my friend, so if it's all the same to you I'll just stick with Doc.

And while we're getting shit straight here, let's lay down some ground rules before we start this joyride. If we're going to do this, it's going to be done my way. That means no questions from you. Not even one sneaky little "How did you feel when..." I'll tell the story from the beginning, and when I'm interested in hearing what you have to say, I'll let you know.

Oh, and in case you were wondering? No, I wasn't always such a bitch.

I dozed in bed a little longer than usual that first Sunday morning in August while my golden retriever, Emma, snored in my ear. I didn't get many moments to indulge. I was working my ass off that month going after a waterfront condo development. For Clayton Falls, a hundred-unit complex is a big deal, and it was down to me and another Realtor. I didn't know who my competition was, but the developer had called me on Friday to tell me they were impressed with my presentation and would let me know in a few days. I was so close to the big time I could already taste the champagne. I'd actually only tried the stuff once at a wedding and ended up switching it for a beer--nothing says class like a girl in a satin bridesmaid dress swilling beer out of the bottle--but I was convinced this deal would transform me into a sophisticated business-woman. Sort of a water-into-wine thing. Or in this case, beer into champagne.

After a week of rain it was finally sunny, and warm enough for me to wear my favorite suit. It was pale yellow and made from the softest material. I loved how it made my eyes look hazel instead of a boring brown. I generally avoid skirts because at only a hiccup over five feet I look like a midget in them, but something about the cut of this one made my legs look longer. I even decided to wear heels. I'd just had my hair trimmed so it swung against my jawline perfectly, and after a last-minute inspection in my hall mirror for any gray hairs--I was only thirty-two last year, but with black hair those suckers show up fast--I gave myself a whistle, kissed Emma good-bye (some people touch wood, I touch dog), and headed out.

The only thing I had to do that day was host an open house. It would've been nice to have the day off, but the owners were anxious to sell. They were a nice German couple and the wife baked me Bavarian chocolate cake, so I didn't mind spending a few hours to keep them happy.

My boyfriend, Luke, was coming over for dinner after he was done working at his Italian restaurant. He'd had a late shift the night before, so I sent him a can't-wait-to-see-you-later e-mail. Well, first I tried to send him one of those e-mail card things he was always sending me, but all the choices were cutesy--kissing bunnies, kissing frogs, kissing squirrels--so I settled on a simple e-mail. He knew I was more of a show than tell kind of girl, but lately I'd been so focused on the waterfront deal I hadn't shown the poor guy much of anything, and God knows he deserved better. Not that he ever complained, even when I had to cancel at the last minute a couple of times.

My cell phone rang while I was struggling to shove the last open house sign into my trunk without getting dirt on my suit. On the off chance it was the developer, I grabbed the phone out of my purse.

"Are you at home?" Hi to you too, Mom.

"I'm just leaving for the open house--"

"So you're still doing that today? Val mentioned she hadn't seen many of your signs lately."

"You were talking to Aunt Val?" Every couple of months Mom had a fight with her sister and was "never speaking to her again."

"First she invites me to lunch like she didn't just completely insult me last week, but two can play that game, then before we've even ordered she just has to tell me your cousin sold a waterfront listing. Can you believe Val's flying over to Vancouver tomorrow just to go shopping with her for new clothes on Robson Street? Designer clothes." Nice one, Aunt Val. I struggled not to laugh.

"Good for Tamara, but she looks great in anything." I hadn't actually seen my cousin in person since she'd moved to the mainland right after high school, but Aunt Val was always e-mailing just-look-what-my-amazing-kids-are-up-to-now photos.

"I told Val you have some nice things too. You're just...conservative."

"Mom, I have lots of nice clothes, but I--"

I stopped myself. She was baiting me, and Mom isn't the catch-and-release type. Last thing I wanted to do was spend ten minutes debating appropriate business attire with a woman who wears four-inch heels and a dress to get the mail. Sure as hell wasn't any point. Mom may be small, barely five feet, but I was the one always falling short.

"Before I forget," I said, "can you drop off my cappuccino maker later?"

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "You want it today?"

"That's why I asked, Mom."

"Because I just invited some of the ladies in the park over for coffee tomorrow. Your timing is perfect, as usual."

"Oh, crap, sorry, Mom, but Luke's coming over and I want to make him a cappuccino with breakfast. I thought you were going to buy one, you just wanted to try mine?"

"We were, but your stepdad and I are a little behind right now. I'll just have to call the girls this afternoon and explain."

Great, now I felt like a jerk.

"Don't worry about it, I'll get it next week or something."

"Thanks, Annie Bear." Now I was Annie Bear.

"You're welcome, but I still need it--" She hung up.

I groaned and shoved the phone back in my purse. The woman never let me finish a goddamn sentence if it wasn't something she wanted to hear.

At the corner gas station, I stopped to grab a coffee and a couple of magazines. My mom loves trashy magazines, but I only buy them to give me something to do if no one comes in to an open house. One of them had a picture of some poor missing woman on the cover. I looked at her smiling face and thought: She used to be just a girl living her life, and now everyone thinks they know all about her.

The open house was a little slow. I guess most people were taking advantage of the good weather--like I should have been. About ten minutes before it ended I started packing up my stuff. When I went outside to put some flyers in my trunk, a newer tan-colored van pulled in and parked right behind my car. An older guy, maybe mid-forties, walked toward me with a smile on his face.

"Shoot, you're packing up. Serves me right--saving the best for last. Would it be a huge inconvenience if I had a quick look around?"

For a second I considered telling him it was too late. A part of me just wanted to go home, and I still had to get some stuff from the grocery store, but as I hesitated he put his hands on his hips, stepped back a couple of feet, and surveyed the front of the house.

"Wow!"

I looked him over. His khakis were perfectly pressed, and I liked that. Fluffing my clothes in the dryer is my version of ironing. His running shoes were glaringly white, and he was wearing a baseball hat with the logo of a local golf course on the brim. His lightweight beige coat sported the same logo over his heart. If he belonged to the club, he had money behind him. Open houses usually attract neighbors or people out on Sunday drives, but when I glanced at his van I could see our real estate magazine sitting on the dash. What the hell, a few more minutes wouldn't kill me.

I gave him a big smile and said, "Of course I don't mind, that's what I'm here for. My name's Annie O'Sullivan."

I held out my hand, and as he came toward me to shake it, he stumbled on the flagstone path. To stop himself from falling to his knees, he braced his hands on the ground, ass up. I reached for him but he jumped to his feet in seconds, laughing and brushing the dirt from his hands.

"Oh, my God--I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Large blue eyes set in an open face were bright with amusement. Laugh lines radiated from the corners, leaked into flushed cheeks, and were commas to a wide grin of straight white teeth. It was one of the most genuine smiles I'd seen in a long time, and a face you just had to smile back at.

He bowed theatrically and said, "I certainly know how to make an entrance, don't I? Allow me to introduce myself, I'm David."

I dropped into a quick curtsy and said, "Nice to make your acquaintance, David."

We both laughed, and he said, "I really do appreciate this, and I promise I won't take up too much of your time."

"Don't worry about it--look around as long as you want."

"That's very kind of you, but I'm sure you can't wait to go and enjoy the weather. I'll make it quick."

Man, was it ever nice to meet a prospective buyer who treated a Realtor with consideration. Usually they act like they're doing us a favor.

I took him inside and chatted him up about the house, which was your typical West Coast style with vaulted ceilings, cedar siding, and a killer ocean view. He made such enthusiastic comments as he trailed behind me, it was like I was seeing the house for the first time too, and I found myself eager to point out features.

"The ad said the house is only two years old but it didn't mention the builder," he said.

"They're a local firm, Corbett Construction. It's still under warranty for a couple more years--which goes with the house, of course."

"That's great, you can never be too careful with some of these builders. You just can't trust people these days."

"When did you say you wanted to move by?"

"I didn't, but I'm flexible. When I find what I'm looking for I'll know." I glanced back at him and he smiled.

"If you need a mortgage broker, I can give you some names."

"Thanks, but I'll be buying with cash." Better and better. "Does it have a fenced backyard?" he said. "I have a dog."

"Oh, I love dogs--what kind?"

"A golden retriever, purebred, and he needs a lot of room to move around."

"I totally understand, I have a golden too, and she's a handful if she doesn't get enough exercise." I opened the sliding glass door to show him the cedar fencing. "So what's your dog's name?"

In the second that I waited for him to answer, I realized he was too close behind me. Something hard pressed into my lower back.

I tried to turn around, but he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back so fast and so painfully I thought a piece of my scalp would tear off. My heart slammed against my rib cage, and blood roared in my head. I willed my legs to kick out, run--to do something, anything--but I couldn't make them move.

"Yes, Annie, that's a gun, so please listen carefully. I'm going to let go of your hair and you're going to remain calm while we take a walk out to my van. And I want you to keep that pretty smile on your face while we do that, okay?"

"I--I can't--" I can't breathe.

Voice low and calm against my ear, he said, "Take a deep breath, Annie."

I sucked in a lungful.

"Let it out nice and easy."

I exhaled slowly.

"Again." The room came back into focus.

"Good girl." He released my hair.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I could feel the gun grinding into my spine as he used it to push me forward. He urged me out the front door and down the steps, humming a little melody. While we walked to his van, he whispered into my ear.

"Relax, Annie. Just pay attention to what I tell you and we won't have any problems. Don't forget to keep smiling." As we moved farther from the house I looked around--somebody had to be seeing this--but no one was in sight. I'd never noticed how many trees surrounded the house or that both of the neighboring homes faced away.

"I'm so glad the sun came out for us. It's a lovely day for a drive, don't you agree?"

He's got a gun and he's talking about the weather?

"Annie, I asked you a question."

"Yes."

"Yes what, Annie?"

"It's a nice day for a drive." Like two neighbors having a conversation over the fence. I kept thinking, this guy can't be doing this in broad daylight. It's an open house, for God's sake, I have a sign at the end of the driveway, and a car is going to pull up any minute.

We were at the van.

"Open the door, Annie." I didn't move. He pressed the gun to my lower back. I opened the door.

"Now get in." The gun pressed harder. I got in and he closed the door.

As he began to walk away, I yanked the door handle and pushed the automatic lock repeatedly, but something was wrong. I rammed my shoulder into the door. Open, GODDAMMIT!

He crossed in front of the van.

I pounded the locks, the power window button, tugged at the handle. His door opened and I turned around. In his hand was a keyless entry remote.

He held it up and smiled.

As he backed down the driveway and I watched the house get smaller, I couldn't believe what was happening. He wasn't real. None of this was real. At the end of the driveway he paused for a second, checking for traffic. My lawn sign advertising the open house was missing. I glanced into the back of the van and there it was, along with the two I'd placed at the end of the street.

Then it hit me. This wasn't random. He must have read the ad and checked out the street.

He chose me.

"So, how did the open house go?"

Fine, until he came along.

Could I pull the keys out of the ignition? Or at least press the unlock button on the remote and throw myself out the door before he grabbed me? I slowly reached out with my left hand, keeping it low--

His hand landed on my shoulder, and his fingers curled over my collarbone.

"I'm trying to ask about your day, Annie. You're not usually so rude."

I stared at him.

"The open house?"

"It was...it was slow."

"You must have been happy when I came by, then!"

He gave me that smile I'd found so genuine. As he waited for me to respond, his smile began to droop and his grip tightened.

"Yes, yes, it was nice to see someone."

The smile was back. He rubbed me on the shoulder where his hand had been, then cupped my cheek.

"Just try to relax and enjoy the sun, you look so stressed out lately." When he faced the road again, he gripped the steering wheel with one hand and rested the other on my thigh. "You're going to like it there."

"Where? Where are you taking me?"

He began to hum.

After a while he turned down a little side road and parked. I had no idea where we were. He shut off the van, turned to me, and smiled like we were on a date.

"Not much longer now."

He got out, walked around the front of the van, then opened my door. I hesitated for a second. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. I got out.

He put an arm around my shoulders, the gun in his other hand, and we walked toward the back of the van.

He inhaled deeply. "Mmmm, smell that air. Incredible."

Everything was so quiet, that hot summer afternoon kind of quiet when you can hear a dragonfly buzzing ten feet from you. We passed a huge huckleberry bush close to the van, its berries almost ripe. I started bawling and shaking so hard I could barely walk. He lowered his hand off my shoulder to grasp the upper part of my arm, holding me up. We were still walking, but I couldn't feel my legs.

He let me go for a moment, tucked the gun into his waistband, and opened up the van's back doors. I turned to run, but he grabbed the back of my hair, spun me around to face him, and pulled me up by my hair until my toes grazed the ground. I tried to kick him in the legs, but he was a good foot taller and easily held me away from him. The pain was excruciating. All I could do was kick at the air and pound my fists on his arm. I screamed as loud as I could.

He slapped his free hand over my mouth and said, "Now, why did you go do something silly like that?"

I clung to the arm that held me in the air and tried to hoist my body up, to take away the pressure from my scalp.

"Let's try this again. I'm going to let you go, and you're going to get inside and lie down on your stomach."

He lowered his arm slowly until my feet touched the ground. One of my high heels had fallen off when I tried to kick him, so I was off balance and stumbled backward. The van's bumper hit the back of my knees, and I landed on my ass in the van. A gray blanket was spread out on the floor. I sat there and stared out at him, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. The sun was bright behind his head, turning his face dark and outlining him in light.

He pushed me hard on the shoulders, pressed me onto my back, and said, "Roll over."

"Wait--can we just talk for a minute?" He smiled at me like I was a puppy chewing on his shoelaces. "Why are you doing this?" I said. "Do you want money? If we go back and get my purse, I can give you my PIN number for my bank card--there's a few thousand in my account. And my credit cards, they have really high limits." He continued to smile at me.

"If we just talk, I know we can work something out. I can--"

"I don't need your money, Annie." He reached for the gun. "I didn't want to have to use this, but--"

"Stop!" I threw my hands out in front of me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it, I just don't know what you want. Is it...is it sex? Is that what you want?"

"What did I ask you to do?"

"You...asked me to roll over."

He raised an eyebrow.

"That's it? You just want me to roll over? What are you going to do to me if I roll over?"

"I've asked you nicely two times now." His hand caressed the gun.

I rolled over.

"I don't understand why you're doing this." My voice cracked. Damn. I had to stay calm. "Have we met before?"

He was behind me, one hand on the middle of my back, pinning me down.

"I'm sorry if I did something to offend you, David. I really am. Just tell me how I can make it up to you, okay? There has to be some way...."

I shut up and listened. I could hear small sounds behind me, could tell he was doing something back there, preparing for something. I waited for the click of the gun being cocked. My body shook with terror. Was this it for me? My life was going to end with me facedown in the back of a van? I felt a needle stab into the back of my thigh. I flinched and tried to reach back to touch it. Fire crawled up my leg.

Before we wrap this session up, Doc, I think it's only fair I fill you in on something--if I'm going to climb aboard the no-bullshit train, I should ride it to the end of the line. When I said I was screwed up, I actually meant royally fucked. The I-sleep-in-my-closet-every-night kind of fucked.

It was tricky as hell when I first got home and was staying in my old bedroom at my mom's, slipped out in the morning so no one knew. Now that I'm back in my old place, some shit is easier since I can control all the variables. But I won't set foot in a building unless I know where the exits are. It's a damn good thing you're on the ground floor. I wouldn't be sitting here if your office was any higher than I can jump.

Night...well, night's the worst. I can't have any people around. What if they unlocked a door? What if they left a window open? If I wasn't already waltzing with crazy, then running around checking everything while trying not to let anybody see what I'm doing would guarantee me a dance.

When I first got home, I thought if I could just find one person who felt the same as me...Dumbass that I am, I looked for a support group. Turns out there's no such thing as SAAMA, no Some Asshole Abducted Me Anonymous, online or off. Anyway, the whole concept of anonymity is bullshit when you've been on magazine covers, front pages, and talk shows. Even if I did track down a group, I'm willing to bet one of its wonderfully sympathetic members would be cashing in on my shit as soon as she walked out the door. Sell my pain to some tabloid and get herself a cruise or a plasma TV.

Not to mention, I hate talking to strangers about this stuff, especially reporters, who get it ass-backward often as not. But you'd be surprised how much some of the magazines and TV shows are willing to pay for an interview. I didn't want the money but they keep offering it, and hell, I need it. It's not like I could keep doing real estate. What good is a Realtor who's scared to be alone with a strange man?

Sometimes I go back to the day I was abducted--replaying my actions up until the open house scene by scene, like a never-ending horror movie where you can't stop the girl from answering the door or walking into the deserted building--and I remember the cover of that magazine in the store. So weird to think that now some other woman is looking at my picture, thinking she knows all about me.

SESSION TWO

On my way here today an ambulance came screaming up behind me--guy had to be doing over a hundred. Just about gave me a heart attack. I hate sirens. If they're not scaring the crap out of me, which isn't exactly hard to do these days--hell, Chihuahuas are probably more stable--they're sending me into family-flashback mode. I'd rather have the heart attack.

And before you start salivating over what possible hidden issue my ambulance hostility could be pointing to, thinking you're going to have me shrink-wrapped in no time, chill. We've just started digging through my crap. Hope you brought a big shovel.

When I was twelve my dad picked up my older sister, Daisy, from the arena where she had skating practice--this was during Mom's French cuisine stage and she was making French onion soup while we waited. Most of my childhood memories are wrapped in the aroma and flavors of whatever country's food she was into at the time, and my ability to eat certain foods depends on the memory. I can't eat French onion soup, can't even smell the stuff.

As sirens passed by our house that night, I turned the volume up on my show to drown them out. Later, I found out the sirens were for Daisy and my dad.

On their way home Dad stopped at the corner store, and then, as they pulled out into the intersection, a drunk driver ran the red and hit them head-on. Asshole crumpled up our station wagon like a used Kleenex. I spent years wondering if they'd still be alive if I hadn't begged my dad to pick up ice cream for dessert. Only thing that made it possible to move on was thinking their deaths were the worst thing that could ever happen in my life. Wrong.

After the injection into my leg and before I passed out, I remember two things: the scratchy blanket against my face and the faint scent of perfume.

Waking up, I wondered why I didn't feel my dog beside me. Then I opened my eyes and saw a white pillowcase. Mine were yellow.

I sat up so fast I almost blacked out. My head spun and I wanted to throw up. With my eyes wide open and my ears straining to hear every sound, I scanned my surroundings. I was in a log cabin, six hundred square feet or so, and I could see most of it from the bed. He wasn't there. My relief only lasted a few seconds. If he wasn't here, where was he?

I could see part of a kitchen area. In front of me was a woodstove and to its left, a door. I thought it was night but I wasn't sure. The two windows on the right side of the bed had shutters on them or were boarded up. A couple of ceiling lights were on and another was mounted to the wall by the bed. My first impulse was to run to the kitchen to look for some kind of weapon. But whatever he'd injected me with hadn't worn off. My legs turned to jelly, and I nailed the floor.

I lay there for a few minutes, then crawled, then pulled myself up. Most of the drawers and cupboards--even the fridge--had padlocks on them. Leaning heavily on the counter, I rifled through the one drawer I could open but couldn't find anything more lethal than a tea towel. I took a few deep breaths and tried to come up with some clue as to where I was.

My watch was missing and there were no clocks or windows, so I couldn't even guess at the time of day. I had no idea how far away from home I was, because I had no idea how long I'd been unconscious. My head felt like someone was squeezing it in a vise. I made my way to the farthest corner in between the bed and the wall, put my back into it as far as I could, and stared at the door.

I crouched in the corner of that cabin for what seemed like hours. I felt cold all over and couldn't stop shaking.

Was Luke pulling into my driveway, calling my cell, paging me? What if he thought I was working late again and forgot to cancel, so he just went home? Had they found my car? What if I'd been gone for hours and nobody had even started looking for me? Had anybody even called the cops? And what about my dog? I imagined Emma all alone in my house, hungry, wanting her walk, and whimpering.

The crime shows I've watched on TV cycled through my mind. CSI--the one set in Las Vegas--was my favorite. Grissom would've just gone to the house where I was abducted and by taking close-ups inside and analyzing a speck of dirt outside he'd know exactly what happened and where I was. I wondered if Clayton Falls even had a CSI unit. The only time I ever saw the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on TV was when they rode their horses in a parade or busted another marijuana grow-op.

Every second The Freak--that's what I called him in my mind--left me alone, I imagined more and more brutal deaths. Who would tell my mom when they found my mangled body? What if my body was never found?

I still remember her screams when the phone call came about the accident, and from then on it was rare to see her without a glass of vodka. I only recall a few times when I saw her outright drunk, though. Generally she was just "blurry." She's still beautiful, but she seems, to me anyway, like a once-vibrant painting whose colors have bled into one another.

I replayed what might be the last conversation we'd ever have, an argument about a cappuccino machine. Why didn't I just give her the damn thing? I was so pissed at her, and now I'd do anything to have that moment back.

My legs were cramped from holding one position too long. Time to get up and explore the cabin.

It looked old, like those fire ranger cabins you see up in the mountains, but it had been customized. The Freak had thought of everything. There were no springs in the bed. It was only two soft mattresses made from some kind of foam, lying on a solid wood frame. A large wooden wardrobe stood on the right side of the bed. It had a keyhole, but when I tried to pull on the doors they wouldn't budge. The woodstove and its rock hearth were behind a padlocked screen. The drawers and all the cupboards were made of some kind of metal, finished to look like wood. I couldn't even kick my way in.

There was no crawl space or attic and the cabin door was steel. I tried to turn the handle, but it was locked from the outside. I felt along its edges for brackets, hinges, anything that could be undone, but there was nothing. I pressed my ear to the ground, but not one sliver of light came through the bottom, and when I ran my fingers along the base I couldn't feel any cool air. There had to be one hell of a weather strip around that thing.

When I rapped on the window shutters they sounded like metal, and I couldn't see any locks or hinges on them. I felt all around the logs for signs of rot, but they were in good shape. Under the windowsill in the bathroom, I felt coolness on my fingers in one spot. I managed to remove a few pieces of insulation, then pressed my eye to the pencil-sized hole. I could see a blur of hazy green and figured it was early evening. I stuffed the insulation back in and made sure there were no remnants anywhere on the floor.

At first the bathroom with its older white tub and toilet seemed standard, but then I realized there was no mirror, and when I tried to lift up the lid on the toilet tank it wouldn't move. A steel rod ran through the fabric hoops of a pink shower curtain with little roses all over it. I gave the rod a good tug, but it was bolted in place. The bathroom had a door on it. No lock.

An island in the middle of the kitchen had two barstools bolted to the floor on either side of it. The appliances were stainless steel--those aren't cheap--and they looked brand-new. The white of the double enamel sinks and countertops sparkled and the air smelled of bleach.

When I tried one of the burners on what appeared to be a gas or propane stove, all I heard was a clicking sound. He must have disconnected the gas. I wondered if I could get any pieces of the stove apart, but I couldn't lift up the burners, and when I looked inside the oven I discovered the racks had been taken out. The drawer underneath the oven was padlocked.

There was no way I could protect myself, and no way out. I needed to prepare for the worst, but I didn't even know what the worst might be.

I realized I was shaking again. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the facts. He wasn't there and I was still alive. Somebody had to find me soon. I walked to the sink and put my head under the tap for some water. Before I'd even taken a mouthful I heard a key in the lock--or at least what I thought was the lock. My heart lurched as the door slowly opened.

His baseball cap was off, revealing wavy blond hair and a face devoid of all expression. I studied his features. How had he made me like him? His bottom lip was fuller than the top, giving him a slight pout, but other than that all I saw was vacant blue eyes and a nice-looking face but not the kind of face you'd notice at first glance, let alone remember.

He stood there as his eyes landed on me and his whole face broke into a smile. Now I was looking at a completely different man. And I got it. He was the kind of guy who could choose whether he was noticed or not.

"Good, you're up! I was beginning to think I'd given you too much."

With a bounce in his step, he walked toward me. I ran back to the farthest corner of the cabin, by the bed, and, crouching, pressed myself into it. He stopped abruptly.

"Why are you hiding in the corner?"

"Where the hell am I?"

"I realize you probably aren't feeling a hundred percent, but there's no swearing here." He walked to the sink.

"I was looking forward to our first meal together, but you slept past dinnertime, I'm afraid." He took a huge key chain out of his pocket, unlocked one of the cupboards, and picked up a glass. "Hope you're not too hungry." He ran the water for a while, then filled the glass. He shut the tap off and turned to face me, his back against the counter.

"I can't break the dinnertime rule, but I'm willing to bend things a little today." He held the glass out. "Your mouth must be so dry."

Sandpaper was smoother than my throat right now, but I wasn't taking anything from him. He jiggled the glass. "Can't beat cold mountain water."

He waited a couple of seconds, an eyebrow raised in question, then shrugged and turned slightly to dump the water in the sink. He rinsed the glass out, then held it up and rapped his knuckle on it. "Isn't it amazing how real this plastic looks? Things aren't always as they seem, are they?"

He carefully dried it and put it back in the cupboard, which he locked. Then, with a sigh, he sat down on one of the barstools at the island and stretched his hands over his head.

"Wow, does it ever feel good to finally relax." Relax? I'd hate to see what he did for excitement. "How's your leg? Sore from the needle?"

"Why am I here?"

"Ah. She speaks." He rested his elbows on the island and steepled his fingers under his chin. "That's a great question, Annie. To put it simply, you're a very lucky girl."

"I don't consider being abducted and drugged lucky."

"You don't think it's possible that people can sometimes come to realize what they thought was a bad event in their life was actually an extremely good event, if they knew the alternative?"

"Anything would be a better alternative than this."

"Anything, Annie? Even if the alternative to spending some time with a nice guy like me was getting into an accident when you drove away from the open house--say, with a young mother coming home from the grocery store--and killing a whole family? Or maybe just one of the children, her favorite?" My mind flashed to Mom sobbing Daisy's name at the funeral. Was this creep from Clayton Falls?

"No answer?"

"That's not a fair comparison. You don't know what might have happened to me."

"See, there's where you're wrong. I do. I know exactly what happens to women like you."

This was good, I should keep him talking. If I could figure out what made him tick, I could figure out how to get away from him.

"Women like me? Did you know someone like me before?"

"Have you had a chance to look around yet?" He glanced around the cabin with a smile. "I think it turned out rather well."

"If some other girl hurt you, then I'm truly sorry--I am--but it's not fair to punish me, I've never done anything to you."

"You think this is punishment?" His eyes widened in surprise.

"You can't abduct someone and take them to...wherever. You just can't do that."

He smiled. "I hate to point out the obvious, but I just did. Look, how about I solve some of the mystery for you. We're on a mountain, in a cabin I handpicked for us. I've taken care of every detail so you'll be safe here." The guy fucking abducted me and he's telling me I'm safe?

"It took a little longer than I wanted--but while I was preparing, I got to know you better. Time well spent, I think."

"Got to--I've never even met you. Is David your real name?"

"Don't you think David is a nice name?" It was my father's name, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

I tried to speak in a calm, pleasant voice. "David's a great name, but I think you've got me confused with some other girl, so how about you just let me go, okay?"

He slowly shook his head. "I'm not the one who's confused, Annie. In fact, I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

He pulled the key chain out of his pocket again, unlocked a cupboard in the kitchen, grabbed a big box labeled "Annie" on the side, and brought it over to the bed. He pulled flyers out of the box, all from houses I'd sold. He even had some of my newspaper ads. He held one up. It was the ad for the open house.

"This one's my favorite. The address matches up perfectly with the date of the first time I saw you."

And then he handed me a stack of photos.

There I was, walking Emma in the morning, going into my office, getting a coffee at the corner store. In one photo my hair was longer--I didn't even have the shirt I was wearing in it anymore. Had he swiped the photo from my house? No way he could have gotten past Emma, he must have stolen it from my office. He took the photos out of my hands, stretched out on the bed propped on one elbow, and spread them out.

"You're very photogenic."

"How long have you been stalking me?"

"I wouldn't call it stalking. Observing, maybe. I certainly haven't deluded myself into thinking you're in love with me, if that's what you're wondering."

"I'm sure you're a really nice guy, but I already have a boyfriend. I'm sorry if I unintentionally did something that confused you, but I don't feel the same way you do. Maybe we can be friends--"

He smiled kindly at me. "You're making me repeat myself here. I'm not confused. I know women like you don't get romantic feelings for men like me--women like you don't even see me."

"I see you, I just think you deserve someone who--"

"Someone who what? Is willing to settle? Maybe a tubby librarian? That's the best I can expect, right?"

"That's not what I meant. I'm sure you have lots to offer--"

"I'm not the problem. Women like to say they want someone who's always there for them--a lover, a friend, an equal. But once they have it, they'll throw it all away for the first man who treats them like a piece of garbage, and no matter what he does to them, they'll just keep coming back for more."

"Some women are like that, but lots aren't. My boyfriend is my equal and I love him."

"Luke?" His eyebrows shot up. "You think Luke is your equal?" He gave a small laugh and shook his head. "He would have been disposed of as soon as a real man came along. You were already growing bored."

"How do you know Luke's name? And why are you using past tense? Did you do something to him?"

"Luke's fine. What he's going through now is nothing compared to what you'd have put him through. You didn't respect him. Not that I blame you--you could have done so much better." He laughed. "Oh, wait, you just did."

"Well, I respect you, because I know you're a special guy who doesn't really want to do this, and if you just let me go, we--"

"Please don't patronize me, Annie."

"Then what is it you want? You still haven't told me why I'm here."

He began to sing, "Tiiiime is on my side," then hummed the next few bars of the Rolling Stones song.

"You want time? Time with me? Time to talk?" Time to rape me, time to kill me?

He just smiled.

When something doesn't work, you try something else. I got up, left the safety of my corner, and stood next to him.

"Listen, David--or whatever your name is--you have to let me go." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, facing me. I leaned over right in his face.

"People are going to be looking for me--lots of people. It would be a hell of a lot better for you if you let me go now." I pointed my finger at him. "I don't want to be part of your sick game. This is crazy. You have to see--"

His hand shot out and grabbed my face so hard it felt like all my teeth were ground together. Inch by inch, he pulled me close. I lost my balance and was practically in his lap. The only thing holding me up was his hand on my jaw.

Voice vibrating with rage, he said, "Don't ever talk to me like that again, understand?" He forced my face up and down, tightening his grip with each down. My jaw felt like it was coming apart.

He let go.

"Look around, do you think something like this was easy to create? Do you think I just snapped my fingers and it all came together?"

Gripping the front of my suit jacket, he pulled me over him and pressed me back on the bed. The veins in his forehead had popped out and his face was flushed. Lying partly on top of me, he gripped my jaw again and squeezed. His eyes stared down at me, glittering. They were going to be the last thing I saw before I died. Everything was turning black--

Then all the anger left his face. He let go and kissed my jawline, where his fingers had been digging in seconds ago.

"Now, why did you go and make me do that? I'm trying here, Annie, I really am, but my patience has limits." He stroked my hair and smiled.

I lay there in silence.

He left the bed. I heard water running in the bathroom. With my photos spread around me, I stared at the ceiling. My jaw throbbed. Tears trickled out of the corners of my eyes, but I didn't even wipe them away.

SESSION THREE

I noticed you don't have a bunch of Christmas junk in here, just the cedar wreath on the front door. Good thing, considering they say the holidays have the highest suicide rates and most of your patients are probably already teetering on the edge.

Hell, if anyone can understand why people go off the deep end around this time of year, it's me. Christmas sucked when I was a kid. It was hard seeing all my friends get shit I could only look at in store windows and catalogs. But the year before I was abducted? Now, that was a good year. Blew a fortune on gaudy ornaments and sparkly lights. Of course, I couldn't make up my mind on any one theme, so by the time I was done every room looked like a different float in some weird-ass Christmas parade.

Luke and I went on long winter walks complete with snowball fights, strung popcorn and cranberries to hang on the tree, drank hot chocolate laced with rum, and sang tipsy, off-key Christmas carols to each other. It was a goddamn made-for-TV movie special.

This year I could give a rat's ass about the holidays. Then again, there doesn't seem to be much of anything I care about. Like when I used your bathroom before our session today and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Before all this crap happened I couldn't walk by a store window without glancing at my reflection. Now when I look in a mirror I see a stranger. That woman's eyes look like dried-out mud and her hair lies limp on her shoulders. I should get a haircut, but even thinking about it wears me out.

Worse, I've become one of them--the whiny, depressing people who have no problem telling you exactly how shitty their end of the stick is. All delivered in a tone of voice that makes it clear they not only got the wrong end, you got the one that was supposed to be theirs. Hell, probably the exact tone I'm using right now. I want to say something about how pretty all the stores look lit up or how friendly everyone is this time of year, and they do, and they are, but I just can't seem to stop spewing bitter words.

Sleeping in my closet last night probably didn't help my attitude or the dark circles under my eyes. I started off on my bed--tossed and turned until it looked like a war zone--but I just couldn't feel safe. So I crawled into the closet and curled up on the floor, with Emma just outside the door. Poor dog thinks she's guarding me.

When The Freak came out of the bathroom he shook his finger at me, smiled, and said, "I don't forget the time that easily."

Humming some melody--I couldn't tell you what it was, but if I ever hear it again I'll puke--he pulled me up from the bed, spun me around, and dipped me over his knee. One minute he's trying to break my jaw, the next he's goddamned Fred Astaire. With a laugh, he pulled me back up and led me to the bathroom.

Tea-light candles flickered on the counter, and the air was filled with the scent of burning wax and flowers. Steam drifted over the bathtub and rose petals floated on the water's surface.

"Time to get undressed."

"I don't want to." It came out in a whisper.

"It's time." He stared steadily at me.

I took off my clothes.

He folded them neatly and took them out of the room. My face burned. One arm was across my breasts, one hand over my crotch. He pulled them away and motioned me into the bathtub. When I hesitated, his face flushed and he stepped closer.

I got in the bath.

With that monster key ring he unlocked one of the cabinets and pulled out a razor--a straight-edge razor.

He lifted up my right leg and rested my heel on the edge of the tub, then slowly ran his hand up and down my calf and thigh. It was the first time I noticed his hands. There wasn't a single hair on them, and his fingertips were smooth, like they'd been burned. Terror roared through my body. What kind of person burns off his fingertips?

I couldn't stop staring at the razor, watching it move closer to my leg. I couldn't even cry.

"Your legs are so strong--like a dancer's. My mother was a dancer." He turned toward me but I was focused on the blade. "Annie, I'm talking to--" He sat back on his heels. "You're scared of the razor?"

I nodded.

He held it up so the light could reflect on it. "The new ones just don't cut as close." He shrugged and gave me a smile. Then he leaned back in and started shaving my calf. "If you remain open to this experience, you'll discover a lot about yourself. Knowing someone has life-and-death power over you can be the most erotic experience of your life." He stared hard at me. "But you already know how freeing death can be, don't you, Annie?" When I didn't answer, he looked back and forth between the razor and me.

"I--I don't know what you mean?"

"Surely you haven't forgotten all about Daisy."

I stared at him.

"What were you, again? Twelve, wasn't it? And she was sixteen? To lose someone you love so young..." He shook his head. "Things like that can really change a person."

"How do you know about Daisy?"

"Your father, now, he died on the way to the hospital, isn't that right? And Daisy, how did she die again?" He knew. The bastard knew.

I found out how at her funeral, when I overheard my aunt explaining to someone why Mom hadn't wanted her beautiful daughter to have an open casket. For months after that, my sister came to me in dreams, holding her bleeding face in her hands and begging me to help her. For months I woke up screaming.

"Why are you doing this?" I said.

"Shaving your legs? Don't you find it relaxing?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Talking about Daisy? It's good to talk about these things, Annie."

Another this-can't-be-happening wave rolled over me. I can't be lying in a warm bath with some freak shaving my legs while he's telling me I need to get my feelings out. In what world does this shit happen?

"Stand up and put your foot on the side of the tub, Annie."

"I'm sorry, we can talk more. Please don't make me do that--"

His face went blank. I'd seen that look before.

I stood up and put my foot on the side of the tub.

Shivering in the cool air, I watched rose-scented steam roll off my body. I hate the smell of roses, always have. But The Freak?

He started to hum.

I wanted to push him away. I wanted to knee him in the face. But my eyes were riveted on the razor's shiny blade. He wasn't physically hurting me, just a little with his fingernails when he gripped my butt to hold me in place, but the terror was huge, a massive thing tearing into my chest.

Years ago I went to a doctor, an old guy I'd only been to once before. This time he had to do a Pap smear, and I still remember lying on my back with his head between my legs. He was a weekend pilot, and photos of airplanes were all over his office. As he jammed a cold instrument up me, he said, "Think about planes." And that's what I did while The Freak shaved me. I thought about planes.

When he was done and had rinsed me off, he led me out of the tub and gently toweled me off. Then he unlocked the cabinet, took out a big bottle of lotion, and started rubbing it on my body.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

My skin crawled. His hands were everywhere, sliding around, rubbing the lotion in.

"Please stop. Please--"

"Now, why would I do that?" he said, and smiled. He took his time at it and didn't miss a spot.

When he was done he left me standing there on the stupid pink fuzzy bath mat, feeling like a greased-up pig and smelling like fucking roses. I didn't have to wait long before he came back with a handful of clothes.

He made me put on tiny white lace panties--not a G-string or thong, just regular panties--and a matching strapless bra. In my size. He stood back, gave me the once-over, and clapped his hands together, congratulating himself on a job well done. Then he handed me a dress--a virginal white thing I probably would have liked in a former life. Hell, it was a nice dress, felt expensive. It looked like that famous dress of Marilyn Monroe's but not so risque, the good-girl version.

"Spin."

When I didn't move, he raised an eyebrow and made a circular motion in the air with his finger.

The dress floated around me as I twirled. He nodded his head in approval, then held his hand up for me to stop.

After he led me out of the bathroom, I saw that he'd cleared away all my pictures and the box was nowhere in sight. Candles were arranged on the floor, the lights were turned down low, and there it was, looking enormous: the bed. Ready and waiting.

I had to find a way to get through to him. Buy some time until somebody found me. Somebody would find me.

"If we waited, just until we know each other a little better," I said, "it would be more special."

"Relax, Annie, there's nothing to be scared of."

Mr. Rogers telling you it's a beautiful day to kill everyone in the neighborhood.

He turned me around and began to unzip the white dress. I was crying now. Not sobs, just stupid hiccupping whimpers. As he lowered the zipper all the way down my back, he kissed my neck. I shivered. He laughed.

He let my dress fall to the floor. While he undid my bra, I tried to pull away from him, but he held me firm with one arm around my waist. With his other hand he reached around and cupped my breast. Tears wet my face. When one dropped on his hand he turned me around to face him.

He brought his hand to his lips and covered the moist spot with his mouth. He held it there for a second, then gave a smile and said, "Salty."

"Stop. Please, just stop. I'm scared."

He spun me around and sat me down on the side of the bed. He never looked into my eyes once--he just stared at my body. A bead of sweat rolled down his face, dripped off his chin, and landed on my thigh. It burned into my skin, and I wanted desperately to brush it off, but I was scared to move. He knelt on the floor and started to kiss me.

He tasted like sour old coffee.

I squirmed and tried to pull away, but he just ground his lips harder against mine.

He finally left my mouth alone. Grateful, I gulped a lungful of air but it caught in my throat when he stood up and started taking his clothes off.

He wasn't a bulky guy but his muscles were well defined, like a runner's, and his body was completely hairless. His smooth skin gleamed in the candlelight. He stared at me like he was waiting for me to say something, but all I could do was stare back, shaking violently. His dick started to go soft.

He grabbed me around my knees and flipped me back onto the bed. As he forced my legs apart with his knee, he trapped one of my arms between our bodies and gripped the other above my head with his left hand, his elbow digging into my bicep.

I tried to twist away, bucking my hips, but he pinned my thigh down with his shin. His free hand began to tug at my pan ties.

My mind frantically scrambled over everything I'd ever learned about rapists. Something about power, they needed power, but there were different kinds, some of them needed different things. I couldn't remember. Why couldn't I remember? If I couldn't get him to stop, could I at least get him to wear a condom?

"Stop! I have a--" His chest pushed my fist into my solar plexus. I gasped out, "A disease. A sexual disease. You'll get sick if you--"

He tore my pan ties off. I started to buck wildly. He smiled.

Almost out of breath, I stopped struggling and gulped at the air. I had to think, had to focus, had to find a way--

His smile began to fade.

Then I got it. The more I reacted, the more he liked it. I forced my body to stop shaking. I stopped crying. I stopped moving. I thought about planes. It didn't take him long to notice.

He pressed down so hard with his elbow I thought my arm would break, but I didn't make a sound. He spread my legs wider and tried to force himself into me but he was soft. I noticed there was a mole on his shoulder with a lone hair sticking out.

He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw, and grunted out, "Say my name." I didn't. There was no way I was going to call this freak by my father's name. He could control my body, but I wasn't going to let him control my words.

"Tell me what you feel."

I continued to stare at him.

He turned my face to the side. "Don't look at me."

He tried to force himself inside me again. I thought of that one mole hair. Everything on his body was shaved clean except that one mole. I passed by terror, arrived at hysteria, and started to giggle. He was going to kill me, but I couldn't stop. Giggles became laughter.

His body froze on top of me. I was still looking away, facing the opposite wall. His free hand shot out and clamped over my mouth. He turned my face back so I was looking at him, my lips mashed into my teeth. He ground his hand down harder. I tasted salt.

"Bitch!" he screamed, spraying me with spit. Then his face changed again. All life was gone. He leapt off the bed, blew out all the candles, and stalked into the bathroom. Soon I heard the shower.

I ran to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. The shower shut off, my heart started to pound again, and I raced back to the bed. With my face turned to the wall, I sucked on my bleeding lip and cried. Tears and blood mingled. The bed sagged as he lay down beside me.

He sighed. "God, I love this place. It's so quiet--I put in extra insulation. You can't even hear the crickets."

"Please take me home. I won't tell anyone. I swear. Please."

"I have the best dreams here."

He snuggled up to my side, folded his leg over mine, and held my hands until he fell asleep. I lay there with this naked freak cuddling me and wished the bed would open up and swallow me whole. My arm hurt, my face hurt, my heart hurt. I cried myself to sleep.

We still have some time left, but I'm finished. And, yes, I remember we're missing next week's session because of Christmas. Just as well--I need a break from this crap. To tell you about it, I have to go back there. Denial is a whole lot easier. Well, at least I can fool myself into thinking it is...for about half a second. Avoiding this shit is like closing a door on a raging river. Little trickles of water start coming through the cracks, and next thing you know, the door blows off. Now that I'm letting some of the water through, will the door come crashing in? If I unleash everything that's inside me, will I go floating down the river with it? Well, for now I think I'm going to go home and have a hot shower. And after that, I'll probably have another one.

SESSION FOUR

How was your Christmas, Doc? Hope Santa brought you something good. Dealing with a head case like me every week should've guaranteed you a spot on his "nice" list. Me? Well, despite my best intentions to avoid any form of holiday merriment or good cheer, it came knocking on my door. Literally. Some Boy Scouts came by selling Christmas trees, and maybe I was inspired by your wreath--or hell, maybe just by their being brave enough to knock on the only door with no Christmas lights--but somehow I ended up buying one. Always was a sucker for guys in uniform.

Problem was Mom had gotten rid of all my decorations, and every time I thought about going into a store...well, even if people didn't still stare at me like I have an elf growing out of my ass, I'd pretty much rather dance barefoot on broken ornaments than go into a store this time of year. Got so tired of looking at the damn tree sitting sad and naked in the corner that I dragged it down to the shelter in town. Figured someone might as well enjoy it.

Hell, there wasn't anything to put under it anyway. I told my friends and family I didn't want any presents, and I didn't go to any Christmas parties. I consider that my gift to the general public. No need to bring everyone else down. Compared to last year, this holiday's a raging success.

The morning after The Freak tried to rape me he made me shower with him. He washed me off like a child and didn't miss an inch. Then he made me wash him--all of him.

I had to stand facing the wall with my back to him when he shaved his body. I lusted after the razor. I wanted to slice his dick off. This time he didn't shave me. "Shaving is for bath time," he said. After we got out, he brought me some clothes.

"What did you do with my suit?"

"Don't worry, you never have to go into the office again."

He smiled. Today's choice was sexy underwear again, in bridal white, and a shift dress in a country pattern with little pink hearts on a cream-colored background. Something I never would have picked out--way too sweet and cute for me. After he gave me some flimsy slippers to wear, he sat me down on the stool while he made breakfast--porridge with dried blueberries. While I ate, he sat across from me and explained all my new rules. Actually, first he explained how truly screwed I was.

"We're miles away from any human being, so even if you did escape you'd never last outside longer than a couple of days. And if you're worried about how we'll survive, there's no need. I've taken care of everything. We'll live off the land, and the only time you have to be alone is when I go hunting or into town for supplies." I perked up--into town meant a vehicle.

"You'll never be able to find the van and even if you did, I've ensured you won't be able to start it."

"How long do you plan on keeping me here? You're going to run out of money eventually."

His smile grew.

"I don't deserve this, my family doesn't deserve this. Just tell me what I have to do so you'll let me go. I'll do it--I swear--whatever it is."

"I've tried to play women's games before, with some unfortunate results, but I won't make that mistake again."

"The perfume smell in the back of the van, on the blanket...is there another woman? Did you--"

"Don't you understand what a fantastic gift this is? This is your redemption, Annie."

"I don't understand any of this. None of it makes sense. Why are you doing this to me?"

He shrugged. "An opportunity arose and there you were. Sometimes good things happen to good people."

"This isn't a good thing. This is wrong." I glared at him. "You can't just take me away from every--"

"What exactly did I take you away from? Your boyfriend? We've already discussed him. Your mother? In general I find people rather tedious, but watching you two have lunch? People reveal so much through their body language. Your only real relationship is with your dog."

"I have a life."

"No, you merely existed. But I'm giving you a second chance and I suggest you pay attention--there won't be a third. Every morning after breakfast we'll have exercise time, then a shower. We had one before breakfast today, but there'll be no deviations from the schedule in the future."

He walked over to the wardrobe and unlocked it.

"I'll be choosing your clothes for the day." He held up a couple of dresses cut like the one I was wearing, one with navy hearts on a powder-blue background and the other just solid pale pink. My hatred for pink was escalating. Stacks of what was probably the same dress in various colors filled the top shelf. He reached back in and pulled out a lavender wool cardigan. "Winters can be cold up here."

Several sets of the same outfit he was wearing, beige shirt and pants, lined the lower shelf. And to the side I spotted a couple of beige sweaters. He noticed the direction of my gaze, smiled, then said, "You're the only color I need," and rolled right on.

"After you're dressed, I'll go outside and do my chores--yours are inside. You'll wash the dishes, make the bed, and do the laundry." He took a plate out of the cupboard and slammed it against the counter. "Incredible, isn't it? Made by the same company as the glass." Next he pulled out a pot and swung it through the air like a baseball bat. "Light as a feather, and in one piece too. I don't know how they do it." He shook his head.

"I'll spray down all the surfaces myself." He unlocked the cupboard under the sink and brought out a bottle of house hold cleaner. I noticed it was biodegradable but didn't recognize the brand.

"The cleaning fluid will be locked up at all times and you'll never be allowed to handle hot water or any utensils I feel are unsafe. After you're done with your cleaning duties, I expect you to finish your personal grooming. Your fingernails, which are a mess, must be perfect, and I'll file them for you. Your feet should be soft and your toenails painted. Women should have long hair, so I'll rub conditioner in yours to help it grow faster. You won't be wearing any makeup.

"Our day will start at seven a.m., lunch is at twelve sharp, and afternoons will be spent studying any books I require you to learn. I'll inspect your chores at five, dinner will be at seven, and after dinner you'll clean up again and then read to me. After reading hour, I'll bathe you, then it's lights out at ten o'clock."

He showed me a small pocket watch with a timer on it, like a stopwatch, that he kept on a key chain in his front pocket. No other clocks were in the cabin, so I never knew what time it was unless he told me.

"You'll be allowed to relieve yourself four times a day. These breaks will be supervised, and the bathroom door will be left open. In fact..." He glanced at the watch. "It's your first bathroom break now." I took the long way around the kitchen, putting as much space between him and me as possible. "Annie. Don't forget to leave the door open."

After I'd been there a couple of days he was outside when I decided to sneak in a pee. He came back in just after I'd flushed the toilet, so it was still running. I stood by the bed, trying to look like I was straightening it up. I thought maybe he wouldn't hear the toilet, but just as he started to turn on the kitchen tap and fill up a cup he paused, cocked his head, then went into the bathroom. Within seconds he stomped toward me, his face red and lips twisted into a snarl. I cringed in the corner, then tried to dart past him, but he grabbed my hair.

He dragged me to the bathroom and made me kneel in front of the toilet. Then he lifted the lid and shoved my head down, smashing my forehead into the toilet seat. He yanked my head back up by my hair while he reached around with his free arm and filled the cup with toilet water. He crouched behind me, forced my head to tilt back, then brought the cup to my mouth.

I struggled to move my face away, but he pressed the cup so hard against my lips I thought he'd break it. Some of the water went into my mouth and some up my nose. Before I could spit it out, he clamped his hand over my mouth, and I had to swallow it.

Afterward he made me brush my teeth twenty times--he counted out loud--then forced my mouth open wide so he could inspect my teeth. Next I had to rinse my mouth out with salt and warm water ten times. For the finale, he took some soap and water and scrubbed around my lips until I thought at least two layers of skin had been rubbed off. I never tried that again.

Feels like I'm never going to break free of all his screwy rules, Doc. And man, were they ever screwy. It doesn't matter that I know they're total bullshit. They're locked in and I'm locked down. On top of his rules, my psyche has added a few of its own--any little personality quirk I had before has been blown up twenty times and now I'm some weird hybrid of freakdom.

I take the same route to get here and stop at the same coffee shop. I hang my coat on the same hook in your office every session and sit in the same spot. You should see my routine before I go to bed--doors locked, all the blinds down, every window locked. Then I have a bath and shave my legs--left leg first, then the right, armpits last.

Once I'm done with the bath I apply lotion all over, and before finally going to bed I check the doors and windows again, put cans in front of the door, and double-check that the alarm is set--the cans are in case the alarm fails--then finally I make sure the knife is under the bed and the pepper spray on the night table.

A lot of nights when I try to sleep in my bed, all I do is lie there listening to every little sound, so I get up and crawl into the closet, dragging a blanket--I crawl in case anyone's peeking through the windows. Then I tuck myself in and arrange the shoes so they're in front of me.

Last time, you said my routines were probably providing me with a sense of security--and yes, I've noticed the casual something-to-think-about's and have-you-considered's you've started sliding in there once in a while. As long as you don't start asking a bunch of questions, we'll be okay. But I swear to God, if you ever ask how I'm feeling, you'll be talking to my back as I cruise right out of here for good.

So, this routines thing? At first I thought you were totally off base, but I've been giving it some brain time, and I guess my bedtime ritual does make me feel safe--which is ironic, to say the least. I mean, the whole time I was up there I was never safe. It was like riding a roller coaster through hell with the devil at the control switch, but the routine was the one damn thing I could count on to stay the same.

Each day I push myself a little further, and some shit has been easier to shake than other shit, but certain things? No way. Last night I drank a gallon of tea and spent almost an hour on the toilet, at least it felt like an hour, trying to force myself to pee at an unscheduled time. Almost got a dribble--had this oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-pee moment--but then my bladder seized up again. All that experiment produced was another sleepless night.

On that note, I've had enough for today. I have to go home and pee, and no, I don't want to use your bathroom. I'd just be sitting in there, thinking about you in here, wondering if you're wondering whether I was able to pee or not. No, thanks.

SESSION FIVE

On the way over here today I stopped at the coffee shop on the corner of your street. Looks dingy on the outside but has killer java, just about makes the drive into the city worth it. I'm not sure what you have in that mug of yours--for all I know it's scotch--but I took a chance and got you a tea. There should be some perks to having to end your day with me.

By the way, I like the chunky silver jewelry you're always wearing. Matches your hair and kind of gives you a chic grandma feel. The kind who might still have sex and like it. Don't worry, I'm not hinting for details--I know shrinks don't like to talk about their lives and I'm way too self-absorbed these days to listen, anyway.

Maybe I like your jewelry because it reminds me of my real dad, which fits with that whole self-absorbed thing. Not that he wore a bunch of the stuff, but he did have this one claddagh ring of his father's. My dad's parents were straight from Ireland, came over and opened a jewelry store. The ring was the only thing he got when they were killed in a fire soon after my parents were married--bank took everything else. I asked Mom for the ring after the accident, she said it was lost.

I like to think if my dad were alive he'd have tried everything in his power to rescue me, but I don't really know how he'd have handled it. He was a pretty laid-back guy, and in my mind he'll always be forty years old, wearing his nice fuzzy sweaters and khakis. Only times I remember him getting excited were when he told me about a new shipment of books at the library where he worked.

I thought about him sometimes on the mountain, even wondered if he was watching over me. Then I'd get pissed off. If he was my guardian angel, like I told myself growing up, why the hell didn't he make it stop?

On my second night, The Freak tenderly washed my back in the bath. "Let me know if you want more hot water." He squeezed the cloth and let the rose-scented water trickle over my shoulders and back.

"You're quiet tonight." He nuzzled the wet hair at the nape of my neck. Then he took a strand into his mouth and sucked on it. I ached to thrust my shoulder up into his face and break his nose. Instead, I stared at the bathtub wall and counted how many seconds it took for a bead of water to fall. "Did you know every woman has a unique flavor to her hair? Yours tastes like nutmeg and cloves."

I shuddered.

"I knew the water wasn't warm enough." He ran the hot water for a minute. "I can tell just by looking at a woman how she'll taste. Some men are fooled by the color. It would be easy to think your mother with her young face and blond hair would taste clean and fresh, but I've learned to look deeper for the truth." He moved in front of me and began to gently wash my leg. I continued to focus on the wall. He was just trying to mess with me--I couldn't let him see it was working.

"She is a beautiful woman, though. Makes me wonder how many of your boyfriends wanted to have sex with her. If, when they were making love to you, they thought about her."

My stomach flipped. Over the years I got used to my boyfriends ogling my mom. When they weren't busy shoving in one of her dinners they were staring at her full mouth. One guy actually told me my mom looked like a hotter, grown-up version of Tinker Bell. Even Luke stumbled over his words sometimes when she was around.

Seventeen seconds, eighteen...that bead was slow.

"I doubt any of them could see, as I could, that she'd taste like a green apple, the kind you think is ripe until you take a bite. And your friend Christina, with her long blond hair always pinned up, always businesslike. There's more to her than meets the eye." I lost track of the bead of water.

"Yes, I know about Christina. She's a Realtor too, isn't she? Quite a successful one, I understand. I wonder why you surround yourself with people you envy."

I wanted to tell him I wasn't jealous, I was proud of Christina--we'd been best friends since high school. She taught me everything I know about real estate. Hell, she taught me everything I know about a lot of things, but I kept my mouth shut. This guy would use anything I said to screw with me.

"Does she remind you of Daisy? Daisy was cotton candy, but Christina, mmmm...Christina. Bet you she tastes like imported pears." My eyes met his. He began soaping my feet. I was sick of being played with.

"How did your mother taste?" I said.

The hand on my foot stilled and tightened. "My mother? Is that what you think this is all about?" He laughed as he plunged my foot underwater, then he got the razor from the cupboard.

This time when his hand gripped my leg I began to count the lines in the tiled wall. When the cold blade of the razor slid down my calf, I lost count and started again. When he made me stand up, so he could shave everything, I divided the tiles by the number of cracks in the grout. When his hands spread lotion on me, he hummed a song and I counted drips of wax down the sides of the candles.

I took inventory of whatever I looked at. I'd multiply and divide the numbers. If another thought or a feeling crept into my mind, I kicked it out and started again from the top.

While he tried to rape me for the second time, I didn't move, didn't cry, just stared at the bedroom wall. If I didn't react, he couldn't get it up. Help had to be on the way, I just had to tough it out until it showed up. So no matter what he did to me, I counted or thought about planes while I lay there like a rag doll. He gripped my face and looked right in my eyes and kept trying to force his limp penis into me. I counted the blood vessels in his eyes. His dick got softer. He yelled at me to call him by his name. When I didn't, he pounded his fist into the pillow right next to my ear, screaming, "You stupid, stupid bitch!" with each blow.

The pounding stopped. His breathing slowed. On his way to the bathroom he started to hum.

While he showered, I clutched the pillow over my face and shouted into it. You sick fuck! You limp-dicked asshole! You picked the wrong girl to mess with. Sobs went into the pillow next. The second I heard the shower shut off I flipped the pillow over, placed it back under my head dry side up, and turned my face to the wall.

Unfortunately, failure didn't discourage him. Each time it started with the same routine, bath time--which was when he liked to talk the most--followed by shaving, a lotion rubdown, then the dress. I felt like a Broadway performer: same stage, setting, lighting, and costume night after night. The only thing that changed was his increasing frustration and what he did about it.

After his third failed attempt, he slapped me twice in the face so hard I bit my tongue. This time there was no satisfaction, bitter or otherwise. I muffled my sobs with the pillow, sucked on my bloody tongue, and dreaded the end of his shower.

The fourth night he punched me twice in the stomach--my breath whooshed out of me, and the pain shocked me as much as it hurt--and once in the jaw. That pain was excruciating. The room dimmed. I prayed for everything to go completely black. It didn't. I stopped crying into the pillow.

The fifth night he flipped me over, knelt on my hands, and ground my face into the mattress so hard I couldn't breathe. My chest burned. He did this three times, always stopping right before I passed out.

Most nights ended with him getting up, his face expressionless, and then I'd hear the shower run for a while. After he got back into bed, he'd cuddle me and talk about something trivial--how natives cured meat, what constellations he saw on his nightly patrol, which fruits he liked or disliked.

But one night he lay down beside me and said, "I wonder how Christina is. She's so calm and self-possessed, isn't she? I wonder what it would take for a woman like her to lose control."

I struggled to catch my breath as he wove his fingers through my stiff hands and softly rubbed his thumb against mine.

As he snored beside me the idea of his hands anywhere on Christina, or of her feeling one second of the terror I was feeling, tore at my insides. I couldn't let that happen. My current plan wasn't working, unless my goal was to get myself, and possibly Christina, killed. It was taking too long for me to be found, and he wasn't going to turn to me one day and say, "This doesn't seem to be working out, so I'm going to take you home now." I might have gambled longer with my own life, but not Christina's.

I was going to have to help him rape me.

Understanding his behavior was critical. I dredged up everything I'd ever read about rapists, every TV show I'd ever seen about them--Law & Order: SVU, Criminal Minds, a couple of A&E specials--mostly focusing on what rapists like and under what circumstances they kill their victims.

I remembered that some rapists need to think the victims enjoy what they're doing to them. Maybe The Freak was able to delude himself into thinking I was actually turned on, but still couldn't get it up because on some level a little voice of doubt was creeping in on him. Right now it was making him impotent. If it got louder, I'd be dead.

The next night in the bath, I said, "You're very gentle." He stared at me hard and I made myself look into his eyes.

"Really?"

"Most men, you know, are kind of rough, but you have a nice touch."

He smiled.

"I'm sorry I've been difficult, I just wasn't sure, you know, at first, but I've been thinking maybe...maybe it's not too late for me to start a new life." How much should I hesitate? If I was too positive he'd never buy it.

"Difficult?"

"I mean, it will take a while for me to get used to everything and all, but I'm beginning to see that maybe I could like it up here. With you."

"You think so, do you?" He dragged out each syllable.

Forcing myself to make eye contact again, I tried to convey as much sincerity as possible.

"Yes, I do. You understand a lot of things most men don't."

"Oh, I definitely understand a lot of things most men don't." His face broke out in his award-winning smile. Bingo.

When he rubbed lotion on me, I said, "I really like that scent." His smile grew even bigger.

After I put on the dress, I twirled for him and said, "It's exactly what I would have picked out."

Back on the bed I moaned for him and kissed him back, but cautiously, as though I were awakening to his touch. His pants sped up and I counted the seconds between them like contractions. Inside, I died.

With his breathing heavy and his face flushed, he lay on top of me. Worried he would lose his erection--and then lose control--I reached down and fondled him before things could turn ugly. It had to be done.

Deep inside myself I curled into a ball and hid from my own words as I whispered, "I've waited for this moment."

His arms tensed and his face turned dark with rage. He clamped his hand down on my throat. His hand tightened as I clawed uselessly at it.

"I could kill you at any second, and you talk like a whore? You should be terrified. You should be begging. You should be fighting for your life. Don't you get it?"

He finally released my throat, but my relief was interrupted by a blow to my stomach. He pounded my body with his fists, against my breasts, face, crotch. I struggled, but his fists were everywhere at once. The blows rained down until I couldn't feel them anymore. I had passed out.

It's strange, Doc, when The Freak called me a whore and beat me, I felt pain but no sense of outrage, because I wanted him to hurt me. Even while my body struggled against him, my mind cheered him on. I deserved the pain. How could I say those things? How could I touch him like that?

I did a lot of things on the mountain, a lot of things I didn't want to do and a lot of things I didn't want to believe I was capable of doing. But that time? When I wonder how I became the zombie I am now, how I could have gotten so lost, it always traces back to that moment--the moment I put my soul on the shelf to make room for the devil.

SESSION SIX

Yesterday, I sat in a church for a while. Not to pray--I'm not religious--but just to sit in the quiet. Before the abduction I'd probably passed that church a thousand times without noticing it. We're not exactly a churchgoing family, my mom and stepdad were usually too busy sleeping their "religion" off on a Sunday morning. But I've gone a couple of times over the last few months. It's an old church and smells like a museum--in a good way, a survived-lots-of-shit-and-still-standing kind of way. Something about the stained-glass windows works for me too. If I were to get all deep on you, I could say the idea of all those broken pieces being made into something so damn pretty appeals to me. Good thing I'm not that profound.

The church is usually empty, thank you, God, but even if there is someone else inside, nobody ever talks to me or even looks at me. Not that I would make eye contact.

When I first came to after The Freak beat me unconscious, my whole body hurt, and it took a long time for me to lift my head enough to look around. Waves of nausea passed through me. The right side of my chest burned every time I took a breath. One eye was closed up pretty good and the other one made things fuzzy, but I could see outlines. He was nowhere in sight. Either he was sleeping on the floor or he was outside. I lay still.

The bathroom was calling, but I didn't know if I could move that far, plus I dreaded his catching me going for an unscheduled pee. I must have passed out again, because I don't remember anything until I woke from a dream in which I was running on the beach with Luke and our dogs. When I remembered where I really was, I cried.

My bladder burned--if I waited much longer I was going to pee in the bed. God only knew which offense would piss him off the most. There was no way I was putting that dress back on, so I crawled naked to the bathroom. Every few seconds I paused, waited for the black dots in my vision to go away, then crawled another few inches, whimpering the whole time. He would have loved it.

Petrified to use the toilet in case he came in, I squatted over the drain in the bathtub. Leaning my head on the side wall, I tried to breathe in the perfect amount of air that wouldn't hurt and prayed I didn't die in there. Eventually I crawled back into bed and passed out again.

My head ached, but it was a distant throbbing, like background noise. I still didn't know where The Freak was, and terrifying images of his abducting Christina raged through my mind. I prayed that my attempts to manipulate him hadn't just sent him straight to her.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been slipping in and out of consciousness, but I thought it had been at least a day. When I got back some strength, I made my way to the door. It was still locked. Shit. I hung my head under the tap, washed the stickiness I assumed was blood off my face, and drank my fill. As soon as the cold water hit my stomach, I clung to the sink and puked.

When I was finally able to move without getting dizzy, I searched the place again. My fingers explored every crack and bolt. Standing on the kitchen counter, I kicked the shutter so hard I thought I'd torn the muscles in my leg. My feet didn't even leave a mark. I was hurt bad and couldn't remember the last time I'd had any food, but I still would've taken my chances on the mountain, except there was no way out of the damn cabin.

To keep track of how many days I'd been missing, I pulled the bed away from the wall and pressed my fingernail into the wood until it left faint marks. If there was light through the little hole in the bathroom wall, I figured it was morning, and if it was still dark I waited until it brightened up, then made another mark. Two marks since he'd left me alone. To keep myself on some sort of schedule resembling The Freak's, I peed when I couldn't hold it any longer, and then only in the bathtub with my ears peeled for any sound. Too scared to have a shower or bath in case he came home and caught me, I avoided both, and whenever the hunger pangs got too bad, I filled myself up with water. I pictured everyone back home at candlelight vigils and imagined all my friends holding meetings, or handing out flyers with my smiling face on them. My mom must have been going crazy. I could see her at home, crying, probably looking beautiful--tragedy agreed with her. Neighbors would be bringing over casseroles, Aunt Val would be fielding calls, and my stepdad would be holding her hand, telling her it was going to be all right. I wished I had someone telling me that. Why hadn't anybody found me? Had they given up? I'd never heard of anyone going missing and being found weeks later. Unless the missing person was a corpse.

Maybe Luke was on TV pleading for my return. Or would the cops question him? Wasn't it always the boyfriend they suspected first? They were probably wasting time on him when they should be looking for The Freak.

I worried about Emma and who was taking care of her. Were they feeding her the right food for her sensitive tummy? Were they walking her? Mostly I just wondered if she thought I'd abandoned her, and that always made me cry.

To comfort myself I played memories of Luke, Emma, and Christina like home movies in my head: pause, rewind, and repeat. One of my favorites of Christina was the two of us on our candy bender. She came over to play Scrabble last Halloween and we decided to break open one of the bags I'd bought for trick-or-treaters. One bag turned to two, then three and four. We were both so stoned on sugar our Scrabble game just dissolved into a mess of dirty words and hysterical laughter. Then we ran out of candy for the kids, so we had to turn off all the lights. We hid in the dark and listened to fireworks, giggling our asses off.

But then my thoughts always turned to The Freak and what he might be doing to her now. I'd imagine her at the office, maybe working late, and then I pictured The Freak waiting outside in the van. My powerlessness enraged me.

As another day went by and I put a new mark on the wall, I stopped feeling any cravings for food, but the feeling that The Freak was coming back continued. And if I wanted to survive, I needed to be ready. My previous attempt at seduction had nearly gotten me killed, so I had to figure out why he flipped out when I pretended to be turned on.

Was he a sadist? No, he wasn't sexually aroused by beating me. He was reenacting something. This guy had a pattern. It started with the bath--maybe his version of foreplay?--and then it got rough later. What the hell was his deal?

He said women don't want nice guys, we all want to be treated like garbage, and then, when I was too overt in my attempts at seduction, it enraged him and he called me a whore, said I should be fighting him. He must think a "nice" woman secretly wants an aggressive man who's rough with her and overpowers her, but in his mind only a "whore" would actually show she likes it--a nice woman would resist. So he probably didn't feel like a real man unless I was scared of him.

He was trying to please me--with fear and pain. And the more I didn't react, the more he thought he had to hurt me. Holy shit. He was a rapist who thought every woman had a rape fantasy. At last I knew what he wanted--I had to struggle and show him my pain and fear.

If there'd been anything in my stomach to vomit up, I would have. Somehow, the thought of allowing him to see my real feelings was worse than pretending I liked being raped.

On my fourth day alone it became harder to distinguish my dreams from my reality as I slept more and woke less. There were times I'm sure I was hallucinating, because I was wide awake yet I could hear Luke's voice and smell his cologne, but when I opened my eyes there was nothing but those damn cabin walls.

I realized I was so weak I might forget my plan, so I created a rhyme to help myself remember. I chanted it over and over as I slipped in and out of sleep.

The Freak is insane, he needs fear and pain. The Freak is insane, he needs fear and pain.

By the fifth day, I began to be afraid he wouldn't come back before I starved to death. I spent most of the day on the bed or sitting with my back to the corner, waiting for the door to open and chanting my rhyme, but I kept nodding off. I think it was early evening but I was so weak it felt later. Then the lock on the door clicked and he walked in.

I was actually glad to see him--I wouldn't starve. I was especially glad to see he was alone, then I wondered if Christina was unconscious and tied up in the van.

He closed the door and stood staring at me. His image swam in front of me.

The Freak is insane, he needs fear and pain....

Body and voice trembling, I said, "Thank God, I've been so scared. I--I thought I was going to die here all alone."

His eyebrows rose. "Would you rather die here with company?"

"No!" As I shook my head, the room spun. "I don't want anyone to die. I've been doing thinking..." My food-deprived brain struggled to remember words. "Doing some thinking about...things. Things I want to tell you, but I need to know..." My chest tightened. "Christina, is Christina okay?"

He sauntered over to one of the barstools, sat down, and rested his chin in his hand. "Don't you care how I am?"

"Yes, yes, of course, I just thought--just wanted to know..." The Freak blurred and came into focus, then blurred again. "I messed up. Messed up bad. Last time."

His eyes narrowed and he nodded.

"But I have a plan. See--"

"You have a plan?" He sat up straighter. What the hell was I saying?

I dug my fingernails into my hand. The room came back into focus.

"For how we can make things work."

"Interesting, but I've been doing a little thinking myself. It's become clear I have to make some decisions and I don't think you're going to like the options."

Time to roll the dice. I slowly got to my feet. The room began to spin again. I braced my hand on the wall, closed my eyes, took some deep breaths. When I opened my eyes back up, The Freak was staring at me. No expression.

Hand clutching my stomach, I staggered over to sit on the stool next to him.

"I guess I can understand that. You've gone to a lot of trouble and I've been a lot of trouble, right?" Eyelids at half-mast, he nodded his head slowly.

"The thing is, the last time we tried...some of the things I said? That wasn't really me. I just thought that's what you wanted, what would make you happy."

He still wasn't showing much expression, but he was looking intently into my eyes. The best liars stick close to the truth. I took another deep breath.

"I was really scared, of you and of the feelings you were bringing up in me, but I didn't know..." He lifted his chin from his hand and sat up straight. I was going to have to talk faster.

"I get it now, I just have to be honest with you, with myself, and I'm ready to do that." I prayed for the strength to say the next words. "So I'd like to try again. Please give me another chance, please." I waited through a long pause, then braced myself as he got up from the stool.

"Perhaps I should give this a little more time, Annie. I wouldn't want to make a hasty decision." He stood before me with his arms out and his head cocked to the side.

"How about a hug?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. I was being tested. I stepped into his arms and put mine around him. "Christina is fine," he said. "We spent a delightful afternoon looking at houses. She sure knows her real estate."

I finally exhaled.

"I can feel your heart beating against me." He squeezed me harder. Then he released me and said, "Let's get some food in you." He left the cabin but came back moments later carrying a brown paper bag.

"Lentil soup, freshly made at my favorite deli, and some organic apple juice. The protein and sugars will help."

After The Freak warmed up the fragrant soup, he brought a steaming bowl and a glass of juice over to me. My frantic hands reached for the soup, but he sat down beside me and placed the bowl on the table in front of him. Tears came to my eyes.

"Please, I have to eat, I'm so hungry."

In a kind voice he said, "I know."

He brought a spoonful up to his mouth and blew on it. I watched in agony as he took a sip. He nodded his head once, then dipped the spoon back in the bowl. He blew on it again, but this time brought the spoon toward my mouth. As soon as I reached for it, he paused and shook his head. I placed my hand back in my lap.

The Freak slowly spoon-fed me the soup, blowing on every mouthful first and stopping once in a while to feed me sips of the apple juice. When half of the soup and juice was gone he said, "That's probably all your stomach can handle right now. Feel better?"

I nodded.

"Good." He glanced at his watch and smiled. "Time for your bath."

This time when he led me out of the bathroom to the bed and began unzipping my dress from behind, I knew what to do.

"Please don't touch me--I don't want to do this."

With his chin digging into my shoulder, he nuzzled my earlobe. "I can feel you shaking. What are you scared of?"

"You--I'm scared of you. You're strong and you're going to hurt me." My dress fell to the floor and he moved in front of me. In the candlelight, his eyes glowed. He stood before me and traced his middle finger around my neck.

The finger traveled down to right above my pubic bone and paused.

My skin crawled.

"Describe your fear to me." His voice lingered over the word "fear."

"My knees--they feel weak. I feel sick in my stomach. I can't breathe. My heart, it feels...it feels like it's going to burst."

With his hands pressed into my shoulders, he walked me backward until the edge of the mattress hit the back of my knees, then shoved me hard, so that I fell onto the bed. I watched as he ripped off his clothes.

I crawled across the bed, but he dragged me back by my ankle. Then he was on me, tearing my pan ties and bra off. It all happened so fast. He was hard, then he was inside me. I screamed. He smiled. I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut, counted his thrusts--struggling when he faltered--and prayed.

LetitbeoverLetitbeoverLetitbeover

When he finally came, I wanted to pour bleach on my crotch and scrub with boiling water until I bled, but I couldn't even get up to wash. When I asked, he said, "That's not necessary, just rest."

In his postcoital afterglow, he lay there stroking my hair and said, "I'll take some chicken breasts out of the freezer tomorrow." He pulled me close against him and nuzzled my neck. "We can make chow mein together, okay?" He cuddled me until he fell asleep.

His wetness was still between my legs, but I didn't cry. When I thought of Luke a sob almost broke free, but I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. I whispered, "I'm sorry," into the dark.

I've watched shows about women who stay married for years to guys who keep beating the crap out of them--worse, they don't just stay, they try desperately to make the guy happy, which of course never works--and I'd want to be sympathetic, want to understand, but I just never got it, Doc. Seemed pretty simple to me. Pack your shit and tell the jerk goodbye, preferably with a boot to his ass. Oh, yeah, I thought I was one tough cookie. Well, all it took was five days of being left alone for this cookie to crumble. Five stinking days, and I was ready to do whatever he wanted. And now I get to be paraded around as a heroine. Heroes dive into burning buildings and save children. Heroes die for the cause. I'm not a hero, I'm a coward.

I have to do another interview tonight, look at some perky blonde with her Chiclet smile who's going to ask, "How did you feel up there, were you scared?" No shit, Sherlock. They're no better than him--just sadists with a bigger paycheck.

Interesting that hardly anyone asks how I feel now, not that I'd tell them. I just wonder why nobody cares much about the after--just about the story. Guess they figure it stops there.

I wish.

SESSION SEVEN

Hard to believe it's already the third week of January, isn't it, Doc? I'm just glad all the Christmas and New Year's hoopla is finally out of the way, which reminds me, did I ever tell you about Christmas with The Freak? You know, I don't think I ever did get around to sharing his not-so-good word on all things red and green. Well, one day he sat me down and told me it was December but we wouldn't be celebrating Christmas, because it was just one more way society tries to control people.

It didn't stop there. I got to listen to an endless rant about the evils of Christmas and how society has taken a myth and blown it up into a money grab. The last thing in the world I'd wanted to do was celebrate anything with The Freak, but by the time he was done talking about every shitty aspect of the holiday I would've helped the Grinch steal Christmas myself. Actually, that's what the jerk did. He stole Christmas from me. Along with a lot of other stuff, of course. You know, like pride, self-esteem, joy, security, the ability to sleep in a bed, but hey, who's complaining?

Well, at least I tried with the tree.... Maybe next year will be different. Like you told me, I need to allow for the possibility I won't always feel the way I do now, and it's important to take note of small signs of progress, no matter how insignificant they may seem. Today when I stepped out onto my front porch I caught the scent of snow in the air and for a couple of seconds I felt excited. We haven't had any snow yet this year, and as soon as there was even an inch out there Emma and I used to tear around in it. She's so damn funny to watch. She runs, slides, pounces, digs, and eats it. Always wished I knew what she was thinking. Probably, Bunnies, bunnies, got to get the bunnies. Sometimes I'd toss a handful of treats into the snow so she'd actually find something.

Afterward I'd have a hot bath, make a cup of tea, snuggle up by the fire with a book, and watch Emma's feet twitch as she reenacted the fun in her dreams. All those memories came back, and I felt good. Like I had something to look forward to.

The good feeling left as soon as I remembered last Christmas, though--trust me, spending an entire winter inside a place with shuttered windows takes "cabin fever" to a whole new level. And then, by the middle of January last year, I was four months pregnant.

On the mountain, I lived for the moments when I got to read--The Freak had good taste--and I didn't even mind reading out loud to him. While those pages were turning, I was somewhere else. And so was he. Sometimes he kept his eyes closed, or he'd lean toward me with his chin in his hand and his eyes glowing, and other times, during intense scenes, he paced around the room. If he liked something, he'd place his hand over his heart and say, "Read it again."

He always asked me what I thought about what we'd read, but at first I was hesitant to express any ideas and tried to paraphrase his opinions. Until the time he slapped the book out of my hand and said, "Come on, Annie, use that pretty head of yours and tell me what you think."

We were reading The Prince of Tides--he liked to mix up the classics with contemporary novels, and they usually featured screwed-up families--and it was the scene where the mother cooks up dog food for the dad.

"I was glad she screwed him over like that," I said. "He deserved it. He was an asshole."

The second the words were out of my mouth, I panicked. Was he going to think I was talking about him? And "asshole" wasn't exactly ladylike. But he just nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "Yes, he didn't appreciate his family at all, did he?"

When we read Of Mice and Men, he asked if I felt sorry for "poor dumb Lennie," and when I told him I did, he said, "Well, isn't that interesting. Is it because the girl was a slut? I think you were more bothered about the poor puppy he killed. Would Lennie be so deserving of your sympathy if she were a nice girl?"

"It would be the same either way. He was messed up--he didn't mean to."

He smiled and said, "So it's okay to kill someone as long as you don't mean to? I'll have to remember that."

"That's not what I--"

He broke into laughter and held up a hand, while my cheeks burned.

The Freak was careful with the books--I was never allowed to place them facedown when they were open or dog-ear a page. One day when I was watching him carefully stack some books back on the shelf, I said, "You must have read a lot as a kid." His back stiffened and he slowly caressed the binding of the book he was holding.

"When I was allowed." Allowed? A strange way to put it, but before I could decide whether I should ask about it, he said, "Did you?"

"All the time--one of the bonuses of having a dad who worked at the library."

"You were lucky." He gave the books a final pat and left the cabin.

When he paced around, ranting about a character or plot twist, he was so articulate and passionate I'd get caught up in it and reveal more thoughts of my own. He encouraged me to explain and defend my opinions but never flipped out, even when I contradicted him, and over time I began to relax during our literary debates. Of course, when reading time ended, so did the only moments I didn't dread, the only activity I enjoyed, the only thing I did that made me feel like a human being, like myself.

Every night I lay in bed imagining The Freak's sperm crawling up inside me and willing my eggs to hide. Since I'd been on the pill when he took me, I hoped my body was messed up and I'd be rescued before I could get pregnant. But I also thought I'd get my period right after the first missed pill, and that didn't happen until about a week after he was finally able to rape me.

One morning we were in the shower, doing the routine, me facing the wall as he stood behind me washing my legs, up and down and between them. Then he stopped abruptly. When I turned around, he was just standing there looking at the cloth. There was blood on it, and when I looked down at myself, I saw blood on my inner thigh. His jaw clenched and his face reddened. I knew that look.

"I'm sorry--I didn't know." I cringed against the wall.

He threw the cloth at me, got out of the shower, and stood silent on the bath mat, glaring at my crotch. The curtain was half open and water dripped onto the floor. I thought for sure he'd flip out over that, but he reached back in, moved the showerhead so the water hit me, and turned the tap to cold--I mean suck-the-wind-out-of-you cold.

"Wash yourself off."

I tried not to scream, the water was so cold. He picked up the cloth from the shower floor and threw it at me.

"I told you to wash yourself off."

When I thought I was done, with the cloth in hand, I said, "What do you want me to do with this?"

He motioned for me to give it to him, examined it, and handed it back.

"Do it again."

When there was nothing left on the cloth, and I was practically blue, he let me get out.

"Don't move," he said. I wondered if my shivers counted as movement. The Freak left the room for a couple of minutes and came back with a scrap of material.

"Use this." He threw it at me.

I said, "Do you have any tampons or anything?"

He put his face close to mine and slowly said, "A real woman would be pregnant by now." I didn't know what to say, and his voice rose. "What have you done?"

"There's no way I could--"

"If you don't do your job, I'll find someone who will."

While he watched, I got dressed and put the stupid rag in my underwear. My fingers were so numb I couldn't get the row of buttons done up on the dress, and as I fumbled with them, he shook his head and said, "You're pathetic."

My period went on for six days, and every morning he waited outside my cold shower until I handed him the cloth with no blood on it. The entire bathtub had to be wiped down with cleaning fluid before he'd have his shower. He made me put the used rags in a bag, which he took outside and told me he burned. We skipped bath time too, which was fine by me--it was six days he didn't lay a hand on me.

During the afternoons he made me study books on how to get pregnant. I still remember the title of one, The Fastest Way to Get Pregnant Naturally. Yeah, that was The Freak, because, you know, abducting a woman, locking her in a cabin, and raping her is real natural.

As soon as I stopped bleeding, he was trying to knock me up again. I prayed my body would know his sperm was sick and reject it, or all the stress and fear would make it hard for me to conceive. No such luck.

About three weeks later, I knew my period was due and hoped every twinge in my belly was cramps. Every time I went to the bathroom, I prayed to see blood in my underwear. After four weeks, I knew. Judging by my little wall calendar, I figured I'd gotten pregnant around the middle of September, about two weeks after my period ended.

I hoped to hide it from The Freak, but one morning I woke to the sensation of his hand caressing my belly.

"I know you're awake. You don't have to get up right away today." He nuzzled my shoulder. "Look at me, Annie." I turned to face him. "Good morning," he said with a smile, then looked down at his hand on my belly.

"My mother, Juliet, the woman who raised me, wasn't my biological mother, she adopted me when I was five. The whore who gave birth to me was supposedly too young to raise a child." His voice was tight. "She wasn't too young to spread her legs for whoever my father was." He shook his head and in a softer voice said, "But then Juliet changed my life. She lost her own son when he was only a year and still nursing. She had so much love to give.... It was she who taught me family is everything. And you, Annie, losing half your family so soon, I know you've always wanted one of your own--I'm glad I'm the man you chose."

Chose? Not quite how I'd put it. Even before The Freak abducted me, I wasn't sure how I felt about having kids. I'd been pretty happy living the in de pen dent career woman's life and I never was the type to walk into a roomful of kids and go, "Wow, I gotta get me one of these." But here I was, knocked up, brewing some demon child. And here he was, talking about his mother, giving me a chance to get inside his head and learn more about him. Part of me was scared to rock the boat, but I had to think long-term gain.

"You said her name was Juliet. Did your mom pass away?"

The smile left his face. He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling.

"She was taken from me when I was just eighteen." I waited for him to elaborate, but he looked lost in thought.

I said, "She sounds like she was someone very special. It's nice you were so close. My mom never abandoned me, like your real one did, but the doctors kept giving her drugs after the accident, so she was pretty messed up. I had to go live with my uncle and aunt for a while. I know what it feels like to be alone."

His eyes flicked to me, then away. "What was it like, living with these relatives? Were they kind to you?"

I did some therapy in my twenties to deal with my feelings about the accident and to work through my issues with Mom--fat lot of good that did me--but no matter how many times I told the story, it never got easier. I hadn't even discussed those feelings with Luke.

"My aunt is my mom's sister, they're always trying to one-up each other, but she was nice enough, I guess. My cousins were older and pretty much ignored me. But I didn't care."

"Didn't you? I bet you cared a lot." There was no mockery in his voice. "Wasn't there any other family you could stay with?"

"Dad's family is all dead and Mom just has her sister." She actually had an older stepbrother too, but he was in jail for robbery and Mom sure as hell didn't consider him family. "It was hard, but now that I'm older I try to understand what my mom must have been going through. Back then, people didn't go to counseling or grief support groups. The doctors gave out pills."

"She sent you away."

"It wasn't that bad." But I remembered my cousins' whispers and the way my uncle and aunt would stop talking when I came into the room. If Mom was a blurred version of herself, my aunt was hard edges and crisp lines on the same canvas. Both were blond and small-framed, all the women in my family are blond except me, but Aunt Val's lips were just a little thinner, her nose longer, and her eyes narrower. And where Mom was all emotion, good or bad, Aunt Val was calm, cool, collected. Not a lot of comforting hugs there.

"And then your mom sold your house, didn't she? Half your family is gone and so is your home?"

"How do you know--"

"If you want to get to know someone, really get to know them, there are many ways. As there were many ways your mother could have dealt with the situation."

"She had to sell it, Dad didn't have any life insurance." Six months after the accident Mom finally came and got me, and that's when I found out my home no longer existed.

"Perhaps, but it couldn't have been easy moving when so much had already changed. And into such a small house?"

"It was just the two of us. We didn't need a lot of space."

We moved to a cramped two-bedroom rental in the worst part of Clayton Falls, with a view of the pulp mill. The pill bottles had been replaced with vodka bottles. Mom's pink silk robes were now nylon and her Estee Lauder White Linen perfume was a knockoff version. We may have been tight on money, but she still managed to scrape up enough for her French cigarettes--Mom thinks anything French is elegant--and her not-so-elegant vodka. Popov isn't Smirnoff.

Not only had she sold our house, she'd also sold all Dad's things. Of course she kept Daisy's trophies and her costumes, which hung in Mom's closet.

"But it wasn't just the two of you for very long, was it?"

"She was going through a lot of stuff. It's hard for a single mother. There weren't a lot of options back then."

"So she thought she'd found a real man to take care of her this time around." He smiled.

I stared at him for a second. "She worked...after the accident."

As a secretary with a small construction firm, but mostly she just worked hard at looking good. She never left the house without a fully made-up face, and she was usually half cut when she was applying the stuff, so it wasn't uncommon to see her eyes smudged or her cheeks too bright. Somehow it worked for her, in a broken-down-doll sort of way, and men looked at her like they wanted to rescue her from the big bad world. Her recently widowed status didn't stop her from smiling back.

Four months later I had my new stepdad, Mr. Big Shot Wannabe. The sales guy for the firm, he drove a Caddy, smoked cigars, even wore cowboy boots--which might make sense if he was from Texas, or even Alberta, but I don't think he's ever left the island. I suppose he's rough-around-the-edges handsome in an aging Tom Selleck way. Mom quit her job right after they got married. Guess she thought he was a sure thing.

"What did you think of your new father?"

"He's okay. He seems to really love her."

"So your mother had a new life, but where did you fit in?"

"Wayne tried."

I wanted at least some of the closeness with him I'd had with my father, but Wayne and I didn't have anything to talk about. The only things he read were girlie magazines or flyers for get-rich-quick schemes. Then I learned I could make him laugh. As soon as I realized he thought I was funny, I turned into a total goof around him, doing anything I could to crack him up. But if he did, Mom would get pissed off and say something like, "Stop it, Wayne, you're just encouraging her." So he stopped. Hurt, I'd make fun of him whenever I could, just being an all-around smart-ass. Eventually we just ignored each other.

The Freak was staring at me intently, and I realized that my attempts at learning more about him had served only to further his knowledge of me. Time to get things back on track.

"What about your father?" I said. "You haven't mentioned him."

"Father? That man was never a father to me. And he wasn't good enough for her either, but she didn't want to see it." His voice rose. "He was a traveling salesman, for God's sake, a fat hairy salesman, who..."

He swallowed a couple of times, then said, "I had to set her free."

It wasn't just his words that sent the shiver up my spine, it was the flatness of his voice when he said them. I wanted to know more, but my instincts told me to back away. It didn't matter. Whatever storm was stirring in him had passed.

He leapt out of bed with a smile, stretched, and after a sigh of contentment said, "Enough talk. We should be celebrating the beginnings of our own family." He stared hard at me, then nodded. "Stay there." He threw on his clothes and coat and disappeared outside. When he opened the door, the smell of rotting leaves and wet dirt drifted over to the bed--the scent of a dying summer.

When he came back in, his skin was flushed and his eyes glittered. One hand was behind his back. He sat next to me, then brought his hand out. His fist was closed.

"Sometimes we have to go through difficult times in life," he said. "But they're just a test, and if we stay strong, we're eventually rewarded." His eyes met mine. "Open your hand, Annie." Maintaining eye contact, he pressed something small and cool into my palm. I was scared to look at it.

"I gave this to someone long ago, but she didn't deserve it." My palm itched. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't you want to see?" I slowly looked down at my hand, and in it a fine gold chain glistened. His finger reached out and touched the tiny gold heart that lay at the center. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I wanted to throw the necklace as far away from me as I could.

I said, "Yes, yes, it is, thank you."

He took it out of my hand. "Sit up, so I can put it on you." My skin crawled as the chain tickled against me.

I wanted to ask what happened to the girl who owned the necklace, but I was scared he might tell me.

SESSION EIGHT

All righty, Doc, I'm seriously starting to question my attitude--yeah, yeah, I knew I had one. But now it's really beginning to get in the way of things. You know, things like my life. See, I may not have always been Little Mary Sunshine before all this went down, with some damn good reasons--dead sister, dead dad, drunken mom, dumbass stepdad--but at least I tried not to take my shit out on the entire world. Now? Man, there doesn't seem to be anybody who doesn't piss me off. You, the reporters, the cops, the mailman, a rock in the middle of the road. Actually, I'd probably be okay with the rock. And I mean, I used to like people. Hell, you could even say I was a goddamn people person. But these days?

Take my friends. They call or try to visit, they still invite me to stuff, but right away I start thinking they're just hoping to get the inside scoop on how the investigation is going, or the offers are just your we-really-should-invite-the-poor-girl kind of thing. Then, when I say no, they probably sit around and talk about me

And see, that's a spiteful, childish thing for me to even think, let alone say, because I should be grateful people care enough to try, right?

Thing is, there's not much going on in my life I want to share, and I'm out of touch with half the shit they're discussing. I'm behind on movies, world events, trends, and technology. So if I do run into someone I know during one of my brief forays into the outside world, I ask them about their lives, and they look relieved and blather on about a work crisis or a new boyfriend or a trip they're taking. I tell myself it's almost comforting to hear that even though my life is fucked, people are getting up and going about their lives every morning. One day I could be bitching about my work too.

But after we say our good-byes and I watch them walk away, back to their nice normal lives, I just start feeling all pissed off again. I hate them for not being in pain like me, hate them for being able to enjoy themselves. Hate myself for feeling that way.

I've even managed to alienate Christina, although she didn't go down without a fight. When I first moved back to my house she busted her ass setting up the place, gathering furniture, hooking up the utilities. She even stocked the fridge. Her take-charge attitude used to be one of the things I liked most about her. Hell, in the past, I was more than happy to let Christina run my life. But when she started marching around my house with her feng shui book in hand, looking for things to rearrange so I'd attract healing energy, bringing me lists of shrinks' phone numbers--this was before you--and pamphlets on retreats for rape victims, I got more argumentative and she just got more aggressive.

Then she started in on her let's-talk-about-it kick, bringing over bottles of wine and her tarot cards. She'd do a spread, then read key phrases from the book like, "You have struggled greatly on your own. It's time to share your burden with those closest to you." In case I didn't get the point, each statement was followed by eye contact and a pause. I was dealing with these visits, if not actually enjoying them, but when she set the cards down one day and said, "You're never going to get over this if you don't start talking about it," I lost it.

"Your life must really suck if you need to get off on my shit, Christina."

She got such a hurt look on her face. I mumbled an apology, but she left not long after.

The last time we talked, months ago, we arranged a time for her to bring over some of her old clothes--I tried to get out of it but she wouldn't take no for an answer, insisted they'd cheer me up. An hour before she was supposed to arrive, my guts were twisted into knots of anger and resentment. I paged her and canceled, then went for a three-hour drive. I came home to a big box of clothes on my front doorstep, which I promptly stuck down in the basement.

When she phoned the next day I didn't answer, but she left a message, sounding giddy and excited, asking if I got the clothes and saying she couldn't wait to see them on me. I called back and thanked her voice mail, but I've never returned any of her messages since.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so fucking mad at everyone?

One night, I'm sure I heard The Freak say some name. It wasn't loud enough for me to make out, but I could tell it wasn't mine. I wasn't stupid enough to ask about it, but I wondered.

He was pretty basic in the sex department. Thank God. I guess as far as freaks go I got an okay one. Look, I'm not complimenting him. I just mean he wasn't ramming me up the ass or making me give him blow jobs--he probably knew I'd try to bite his dick off. I had my role down pat. I knew just where to touch, how to touch, what to say, and how to say it. I did whatever it took to get it over with fast and I got damn good at it.

Physically it made things easier to help him along, but emotionally one more part of me gave up and slipped away.

As soon as The Freak knew I was pregnant, he no longer seemed to care about doing it every single night, but the baths never stopped. Sometimes he'd just rest his head on my chest and talk to me until he fell asleep. His voice mellow, he'd give me his theories on everything from dust to vomit. But he was mostly fixated on love and society, like he'd say our society is all about acquiring and keeping--not that it had stopped him from acquiring and keeping me.

The idea of my genes mixing with his to create something made me sick. The last thing I wanted was to be connected to him in any way, and when we lay in bed at night I willed my body to miscarry. Every negative thought I could dream up, I aimed at this monster growing inside me and visualized it being expelled from my body. My sleep usually ended in cold sweats after nightmares about hideous fetuses tearing my insides apart.

All that winter, my head was filled with images of giving birth up there with The Freak by my side. When he made me read aloud from one book about childbirth at home, I had to force every word out of my throat. In the past, if I saw a delivery on TV I covered my eyes, because I couldn't stand looking at some poor woman screaming while this thing was being ripped from her body. Always thought if I ever gave birth I'd be on lots of drugs, with a husband murmuring encouragement while I zoned out.

The Freak's good mood over my pregnancy only lasted a couple of months. Then one day he was pleased with the way my nails looked, but the next he was ordering me to do them all over again. One minute peeing at two o'clock was okay, the next I was jerked off the toilet and told to wait until three. For a pregnant woman who already had a small bladder, it was excruciating.

In the morning, I'd put on what he picked out for me to wear, then halfway through the day he'd make me go change. If there was even a minuscule fleck on the dishes when he inspected them, he made me do them over again. Once I refused to scrub the bathroom, insisting it was clean, and earned myself a backhand across the face and a wall-to-wall scrubbing of the cabin floor. I learned to keep the perfect amount of submissive shame in my expression, forced myself to look down, and curled my shoulders like a beaten dog.

Toward the end of January, we'd just finished breakfast one morning and I was cleaning up. The Freak watched me for a while and then said, "I'm taking a trip," like he was telling me he was going to carry out the garbage.

"For how long? Where? You can't leave me alone up here--"

"I make the rules, Annie." His face was impassive.

"You could take me with you. You can tie me up in the van or something? Please?"

He shook his head. "You're safer here."

The Freak took some food out of the cupboards, mostly vita-min drinks and protein powder you mix with water, and left those on the counter. No utensils.

Usually I wasn't allowed near the woodstove, but he unlocked it and took the screen away. Then he stacked up a ton of wood inside the house and lit a fire for me. I didn't have an axe, or newspaper, or anything to light a new fire with, so I'd have to make damn sure I never let that one go out.

He hadn't left for a few months, so I figured we must be running short of supplies and he was going into town to stock up. I had no idea where he kept the food, and anything he brought in was in zip lock bags so I could never identify a store, but I assumed he had a deep freeze and a cellar or shed outside. I hoped supplies were the reason behind his trip. Was he going to go see Christina again? What if he found another woman he liked better and forgot about me? How long does it take to starve to death? I was more scared of being left alone up there than I was of him.

A girl disappeared from Clayton Falls a couple of years before I did, and I used to worry about finding her body in the woods when I was walking Emma. Now I wondered if the world was full of girls like me. Their families had moved on. They weren't front-page news anymore. They were locked up in some cabin or dungeon with their very own freak, still waiting to be rescued.

When I made another mark on the wall, I tried not to think about how long I'd already been there. I tried to believe as each day went by I was getting closer to being found. The longer I stayed alive, the more time I was giving them to find me. I thought about what would happen if I was rescued while I was pregnant. I was close to five months, and I was pretty sure that was too late for an abortion, but I didn't think I could have gone through with one no matter how I felt about the baby. I wondered how my family and Luke would feel about my being pregnant. I couldn't see Luke cuddling my rapist's child in his arms and welcoming it into his life. I was having a hard enough time seeing myself doing that.

You'd think I would have liked it when The Freak was gone, but every day I was more anxious. Waiting for the door to open, praying for the door to open. I hated him, but I couldn't wait to see him. I was completely dependent on him.

Not knowing how long he was going to be, I rationed out the food he'd left. He wasn't there to tell me what time to eat, so I tried to follow my body's rhythm, but I was hungry all the time. I know a lot of pregnant women feel sick in the beginning, but I never felt nauseous, just sleepy and famished.

All my life I'd preferred to be outside as much as possible--I went swimming every night in the summer and skied every weekend in the winter. But there I was, staring at four walls. I constantly paced back and forth on one side of the cabin. Years ago I saw a bear in a zoo who kept running along the fence, one end to the other. He'd worn a deep groove in the ground. I remember wondering if he'd rather be dead than live a life like that.

When I wasn't pacing, I leaned on the walls and wondered what was on the other side, or sat in the bathroom with an eye pressed to my hole in the wall. If the sun was out, the hole made a small spot of light on the back of the bathroom door, and I spent hours watching it inch its way down until it disappeared.

Without him there were no novels, so I made up cinematic fantasies. I visualized my mom at home praying I was okay, talking to the police, pleading for my return on TV. I could see Christina and Luke combing the woods for me every weekend with Emma trying to pick up my scent. Best of all, I saw Luke breaking down the cabin door and lifting me up in his arms.

I imagined that Mom had even quit drinking and started a mom's search-and-rescue group like you see those mothers of missing children doing. I dreamed up an epiphany for her--realizing how she'd treated me my whole life, she wanted to make it all up to me. Once I was rescued, we'd be closer because of all this.

I never thought I'd miss Wayne's dumbass jokes and the way he sometimes ruffles my hair like I'm still twelve. But now I made bargains with God and promised that if I could just go home I'd listen to a thousand of his lame business ideas.

I spent a lot of time touching my stomach and wondering what the baby looked like. Some of the books showed pictures of the fetus at various stages and I thought every one of them was gross. I was pretty sure my baby would look good, but with The Freak as a father what kind of child would it be?

The Freak returned after five endless days.

"Sit down on the bed, Annie," he said the minute he came in. "We need to talk." I sat with my back to the wall and he sat beside me, holding my hand.

"I went back to Clayton Falls, and I really wish I didn't have to tell you this...." He shook his head back and forth, slowly. "But all the searches have been called off."

No!

His thumb rubbed slow circles on my hand. "Are you okay, Annie? I'm sure that was quite the blow."

I nodded.

"I have to admit, I was surprised to see your house on the market so soon, but I suppose they feel it's time to move on." Anger displaced shock at the thought of my house for sale--a Victorian three-story I fell in love with as soon as I saw its gorgeous stained-glass windows, nine-foot ceilings, and original hardwood floors. Could Mom do that? She'd never liked the house, thought it too old and drafty. Had Wayne helped her pound the for sale sign into the front yard? He was probably happy to be rid of his smart-ass stepdaughter.

"How did you find out?"

"It doesn't matter how, it matters that I care enough to tell you. I learned something else while I was there." He paused. I knew he was waiting for my line, and I didn't want to play into his hands. But I had to know, which meant I had to ask.

"What else?" How are you going to hurt me next, you bastard?

"Something extremely interesting about Luke...."

This time I forced myself to remain silent. He broke after a couple of beats.

"It would seem he's already grown tired of waiting for you."

"I don't believe you. Luke loves me--"

"Well, when I saw him walking with his arm around that lovely blond woman, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear, I don't think he was telling her how much he loved you, Annie."

"You're lying, he wouldn't--"

"He wouldn't what? Can you honestly tell me you never wondered if sweet Luke was just too good to be true? He's weak, Annie."

Mind reeling, I stared at the far wall.

The Freak nodded. "But you're starting to see it now. What I saved you from."

Was it possible Luke could already be dating someone else? There was one blond hostess, I couldn't remember her name but I'd thought she had a crush on him. He told me I was being silly.

The day before I was abducted, Luke hadn't sounded enthusiastic when I invited him over for dinner the next night. He was at the restaurant, and I figured he was just busy--or maybe thought I might have to cancel again. Had there been another woman even back then? No, there couldn't have been. Luke never once told me he was unhappy, and he didn't have a cheating cell in his body.

The Freak turned my chin so I was forced to make eye contact. "I'm the only one you have left, Annie."

He was just lying. All of this was his latest, best move in his sick game. He loved nothing more than to shake me up. Other people cared about me, lots of people. So I hadn't been a perfect girlfriend, especially right before I was abducted, but Luke wasn't going to replace me just like that. And Christina loved me--she'd been my best friend forever, I knew she wouldn't forget about me. Maybe Mom and I didn't always see eye to eye--she and Daisy always got along better--but she'd be devastated that I was missing. Selling my house didn't mean anything, if it was true. It was probably for reward money.

But, what if The Freak wasn't lying? What if they really weren't looking for me anymore? What if they'd all moved on? Luke might have a new girlfriend, one who didn't work all the time. Mom could be signing a deal on my house right now, Emma could have forgotten all about me too. Was she with Luke and this blonde? Everybody was going forward with their lives and I was going to be trapped with a crazy sadist-rapist forever.

The Freak made it seem so real, and what evidence did I have to prove any different? Nobody had found me, had they? I wanted to argue with him and convince him that other people loved me, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Instead I remembered the dog pound.

I used to help out there--mostly just cleaning out kennels and taking dogs for walks. Some of the dogs had been abused and bit anyone who came near them. There were others that wouldn't let themselves give or receive affection no matter what, and some that became completely submissive and peed if you so much as raised your voice. Then there were the ones that had given up and just sat in their cages, staring at the wall when possible new owners came in.

This one dog, Bubbles, an ugly little thing with a skin condition, was there for ages, but as soon as anyone new came in he pranced up to the front of the cage like he was the most beautiful creature in the world. Always hopeful. I wanted to take him home, but I was living in an apartment at the time. Eventually I had to quit because of work, so I never got to see whether anybody adopted him. Now I was the dumb dog waiting for someone to take me home. I hoped they put Bubbles to sleep before he finally figured out no one was coming for him.

SESSION NINE

I stopped to get some gas on the way home from our last session, and up by the register, the shelves were loaded with bags of candy. I was never allowed anything like that on the mountain, and for so long I missed things, stupid little day-to-day things, then as time passed I stopped missing them, because I couldn't remember what I liked anymore. Standing there, looking at the candies, I remembered I liked them and rage boiled up inside me.

The girl behind the counter said, "Is that all?" And I heard myself say, "No," and then my hands were scooping bags and bags of candy off the shelves--sours, jujubes, wine gums, jelly snakes, anything. People were standing behind me, watching a crazy woman grab at candy like it was Halloween, but I didn't give a shit.

In my car I ripped open the little bags and started stuffing my mouth full of candies. I was crying--didn't know or care why--and I ate so many that I threw up when I got home and my tongue was covered with little sores. But I ate more--a whole lot more--and fast, like I was afraid someone was going to stop me any second. I wanted to be that girl who used to like candy so bad, Doc. So bad.

I sat at my kitchen table--wrappers and empty bags all around me--and couldn't stop crying. I had a sugar headache. I was going to throw up again. But I was crying because the candies didn't taste like I remembered. Nothing tastes like I remember.

The Freak never did tell me why he'd gone back to Clayton Falls or what he did there other than spy on my so-called loved ones, but the first night after his return he sure was in a good mood. Nothing puts a skip in a freak's step like telling a girl no one gives a shit about her. While he made dinner he whistled and danced around in the kitchen like he was on a cooking show.

When I glared at him, he just smiled and took a bow.

If he'd made it to Clayton Falls and back in five days, I couldn't be that far away or that far north, unless he just parked the van and flew somewhere. Regardless, none of it seemed to matter anymore. Whether I was five or five hundred miles from my home, the distance was insurmountable. When I thought of my house I'd loved so much, friends and family, search parties that weren't searching, all I felt was a giant blanket of fatigue wrapping itself around me and pulling me down. Just sleep. Sleep it all away.

I might have felt like that indefinitely, but two weeks after The Freak came home, around the middle of February, when I was about five months along, I felt the baby move. It was the strangest sensation, like I'd swallowed a butterfly, and in that moment the baby stopped being something evil, stopped being something of his. It was mine and I didn't have to share it.

After that, I liked being pregnant. Each week, as I grew and rounded out, I was amazed that my body was creating a life. I didn't feel dead inside, I felt alive. Even The Freak's recharged obsession with my body didn't change my feelings about being pregnant. He'd make me stand in front of him while he ran his hands all over my stomach and breasts. During one of these "examinations," which I'd spend counting knotholes in the ceiling, he said, "You don't know how lucky you are to have your child born away from today's society, Annie. All human beings do is destroy--they rip apart nature, love, and families, with war, with governments, with greed. But here I've created a pure world, a safe world, for us to raise our child in."

As I listened to him, I thought about the drunk driver killing my dad and sister. I thought about the doctors loading Mom up with pills, the Realtors I knew who'd do anything to get a deal, my friends and family who were moving on, cops who must have their heads stuck up their asses or I'd have been found by now.

I hated that I was even considering the opinion of a freak. But if somebody is telling you the sky is green, even though you know it's blue, and they act like the sky is green and they keep saying it's green day in, day out, like they really believe it, eventually you could start wondering if maybe you're nuts for thinking it's blue.

I often wondered, Why me? Why, of all the girls he could have taken, did he pick a Realtor, a career woman? Not exactly mountain wife material. Not that I'd have wished this on anyone, but wouldn't he want someone he knew would be weak? Someone he knew it wouldn't take much to fuck with? But then I realized he did know. He knew all along.

I thought I'd worked past my childhood, past my family, past my pain, but when you've rolled around in manure long enough, there's no getting away from the stench. You can buy every damn type of soap out there and scrub your skin until you're raw, but then one day you're out walking around and a fly lands on you. Then another one, then another--because they know. They know that underneath that fresh-scrubbed skin you're just manure. Nothing but shit. You can clean it up all you want, but the flies always know where to land.

That winter The Freak put me on a reward system. If he was happy with me he gave me things--one extra slice of meat at dinner or one extra pee break. If I folded the laundry perfectly, I was allowed a little bit of sugar in my tea. After one of his trips into town, he said I'd been a good girl and gave me an apple.

So much had been taken away that when he gave me anything, even something as mundane as an apple, it became huge. I ate it with my eyes closed, and in my mind I was sitting under a tree in the summer--I could almost feel the sun on my legs.

He still punished me if I did something wrong, but he hadn't hit me for a long time, and sometimes I wished he would. Being hit was a physical act that made me feel defiant. But the mind shit? That really did a number on me, and as the months passed, the voices of my loved ones faded to whispers and their faces blurred. Little by little, day by day, the sky became green.

He still continued with the rapes after I started to show, but they were different somehow, more like he was now the one acting a role. Once in a while he'd even turn gentle, loving, then catch himself and blush, as though it were the niceness that was wrong.

A couple of times he simply stopped and rested beside me with his hand on my belly, then he'd ask me questions: What did it feel like to be pregnant? Could I feel the baby moving? If he wasn't in the mood for sex I'd still have to put on the dress, and we'd usually lie in bed with his head on my chest.

One night the weight of his head on my breasts triggered a nurturing sensation, and I started daydreaming about the baby. Without thinking I started singing, "Hush little baby, don't you cry," out loud. I stopped as soon as I realized what I was doing. He shifted his head so it rested on my shoulder, then looked me in the eye.

"My mother used to sing that to me. Did your mother ever sing to you, Annie?"

"Not that I remember."

My mind searched for ways to keep the conversation going. I wanted to know more about him, but it wasn't like I could just come out and say, "So how did you turn into such a freak?"

"Your mom must have been an interesting person," I said, hoping I wasn't stepping onto a land mine, but he didn't say anything. "Do you want me to sing you something special? I don't know many songs, but I could try. I took lessons when I was a kid."

"Not right now. I want to hear more about your childhood."

Shit. Could I get him to tell me revealing stuff by talking about my crap?

"Mom wasn't really the sing-you-to-sleep type," I said.

"And these lessons, were they your idea?"

"That was all Mom."

My whole childhood was spent trying something new, singing lessons, piano lessons, and of course figure skating. Daisy was into skating from the time she was little, but I didn't last long. I spent more time with my ass on the ice than in the air. Mom tried me in ballet, too, but that ended when I spun into another little girl and just about broke her nose.

Even the accident didn't stop my mom. If anything, her golden child's death increased her need to make me good at something. Well, what I got good at was sabotage. It's amazing how many ways you can break instruments or ruin sequined costumes.

"What kind of lessons did you want to take?"

"I was into art, painting and drawing, stuff like that, but Mom wasn't."

"So if she wasn't, then you couldn't be?" His eyebrows rose. "Doesn't sound like she was very fair, or much fun."

"When we were younger, before Daisy died, she could be fun. Like every Christmas we made huge gingerbread houses, and she'd play dress-up with us all the time. Sometimes she'd build forts in the middle of the living room with Daisy and me, then we'd stay up late watching scary movies."

"Did you like the scary movies?"

"I liked being with Daisy and her.... They just had a different sense of humor. Mom's really into pranks and stuff, like one Halloween she poured ketchup all over the floor by my bed so when I woke up and stepped in it I'd think it was blood. She and Daisy laughed about it for days." I still hate ketchup.

"But you didn't think it was so funny, did you?"

I shrugged. The Freak began to look bored and shifted his weight like he was going to get up. Shit. I had to start showing him some real feelings if I wanted him to connect with me.

"It made me cry. Mom still likes to tell everyone how she fooled me. She gets off on stuff like that, fooling people. She even used to trick-or-treat with us."

"Interesting. And why do you think your mother likes to 'fool people,' as you say?"

"Who knows, but she's damn good at it. It's how she gets most of her makeup and clothes--she has every saleswoman in and out of town wrapped around her finger."

It didn't take many bottles of knockoff perfume before Mom went hunting for a sucker behind a department-store cosmetics counter. Saleswomen not only gave the pretty grieving widow make overs but plenty of free samples as well, especially when Mom was so good about talking up the products to any woman who happened by.

That's not all she was good at. She may have small hands but Mom has sharp eyes, and those hands of hers are fast. The top of her dresser was littered with half-used cologne, potions, and lotions she'd gotten bored with after plucking them off a counter when a saleslady's back was turned. Sometimes she actually bought stuff, but she generally returned it at the same store in a different town. I finally said something, but she told me that with all the sales she was helping the women make, she considered the occasional bottle her commission.

Once Mom realized how easy it was to steal perfume she moved on to clothes and lingerie. Good stuff too, from boutiques. When I got older I refused to go with her. I'm pretty sure she still does it, I don't ask, but the woman is better dressed than most fashion models.

"Sometimes I think she liked me better as a kid," I said. The Freak's eyes burned into mine. I'd touched a nerve.

With our eyes locked, I said, "Maybe I was more fun for her when I was little, or maybe it's because I started getting my own opinions and actually challenged her. Whatever the reason, I'm pretty sure she's disappointed I grew up."

The Freak cleared his throat, then paused and shook his head. He wanted to say something, he just needed a little nudge. In my gentlest voice I said, "Did you ever feel like that when you were a kid?"

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his head still resting on my arm. "My mother didn't want me to grow up."

"Maybe all moms feel sad when their kids grow up."

"No, it was...it wasn't that."

I thought of his total lack of body hair and his obsessive shaving. I forced myself to curl my arm around under his head and rest my hand on his forehead. He flinched in surprise, then glanced at me, but he didn't pull away.

I said, "So her first child died..." His body tensed against my side. I lifted my palm to stroke his hair so he'd relax, but, unsure of his response, slowly dropped it back down on his curls and just pressed my leg against his so he'd feel its warmth. "Do you think it had something to do with that? Did you feel like you had to live up to him? You know, like you were a replacement?" His eyes darkened as he turned slightly away. I had to stop him from shutting down.

"You asked me about Daisy before, and I didn't want to talk about it because it's still pretty hard for me. She was great, I mean she was my big sister and I'm sure sometimes she got annoyed with me, but I thought she was perfect. Mom did too. After the accident I'd catch her staring at me, or she'd walk by and touch my hair, and just in the way she did it, I knew she was thinking about Daisy."

He faced me again. "Did she ever say anything?"

"Not really. At least, nothing I could point to. But you don't have to hear the words to know. She'd never admit it, but I'm pretty sure she wishes I was the one who went through the windshield. And I can't even blame her for it--for a long time I wished it too. Daisy was the better one. When I was a kid I thought that was why God wanted her."

I don't know what the hell happened, it was probably just the stupid hormones, but I started to cry. That was the first time I'd admitted those feelings to anyone. He opened his mouth and took a breath like he was about to say something. But he didn't, he just closed it, gave my leg a pat, and stared back up at the ceiling.

What was he afraid of? How was I going to get him to trust me and open up? So far, all I'd been able to do was put myself through emotional hell by dredging up this shit. I'd heard some kids feel loyalty to their abusers. Was that what was holding him back?

"I probably shouldn't even be telling you this stuff," I said. "My mom did so much for me over the years that I feel like if I say anything bad about her I'm betraying her." His head cocked toward me. "But I guess parents are humans who make mistakes too." My mind worked to call up every forgive-your-parent self-help platitude I'd ever read. "I keep telling myself it's okay to talk about these things, I can still love my mom and not always like everything she does."

"My mother was a wonderful woman." He paused. I waited. "We had dress-up time too."

Now things were getting interesting.

"I was only five, but I still remember the day she came to see me at my foster home. The idiot she was married to was there too but he barely looked at me. She was wearing this white sundress, and when she hugged me she smelled clean, not like the fat pig who was my foster mother. She told me to be a good boy and she was going to come back and get me, and she did. Her husband was away on another of his trips, so it was just us, and when we got home--I'd never seen such a clean house--she gave me a bath."

I tried not to show any emotion in my voice when I spoke.

"That must have been nice...."

"I'd never had one like it, there were candles and it smelled good. When she washed my hair and back, her hands were so gentle. She let the dirty water drain away, then she added more and got in with me, to wash me better. When she kissed my bruises, her lips felt soft, like velvet. And she said she was taking the pain out through my skin and into her." He glanced at me, and I don't know how I pulled it off, but I nodded as though what he'd just told me was the most natural thing in the world.

"She told me I could sleep in her bed because she didn't want me to be scared. I'd never felt another human being's skin against mine--no one had ever even held me before--and I could feel her heart beating." He patted his chest. "She liked to touch my hair, like how your mom touched yours, and she said it reminded her of her son's." My hand resting on his curls itched and I fought the urge to pull away.

"She couldn't have any more children, and she said she'd waited a long time to find a boy like me. She cried that first night.... I promised I'd be a good boy." He grew quiet again.

"You mentioned playing dress-up together.... You mean like cowboys and Indians?" It took him a long time to answer. When he did, I wished he hadn't.

"After our bath every night...." Oh, shit. "I slept in her bed, it made her feel safer, but on the nights when he was coming back from a trip, we'd have our bath earlier and then I'd help her get dressed." His voice flattened. "For him."

"That must have made you feel kind of abandoned. You get to have her all to yourself, then as soon as he's home you're shoved to the side."

"She had to do that, he was her husband." He turned his face back to me and in a firm voice said, "But I was special to her. She said I was her little man."

Got it.

"Of course she thought you were special--she picked you, right?"

He smiled. "Just like I picked you."

Later, when he climbed into bed beside me and laid his head on my chest, I realized I felt bad for him. I did. It was the first time I'd felt something other than disgust, fear, or hatred for him, and it scared me more than anything.

The guy abducted me, Doc, raped me, hit me, I shouldn't have given a shit about his pain, but when he told me that stuff about his mother--and I knew there had to be even more--I felt bad he had a fucked-up mom who fucked him up. I felt bad he'd been in an abusive foster home, bad that his new dad didn't seem to give a shit about him. Was it because my family's warped? Is that why I felt his pain, because I have it too? All I know is I hate it, Doc, I hate that I felt one ounce of compassion for that freak. I hate that I'm even telling you this shit.

Most people assume the guy had me at gunpoint the whole time, and I don't tell them any different. How could I ever explain? How can I tell them that when he told me about places in the world like the Rock of Gibraltar, where all those monkeys are, I found him interesting and articulate? And that sometimes when he rubbed my feet, they were so damn swollen, I liked it. Or that he could be so enthusiastic and funny during book-reading time, or when he was cooking--he had this one stupid dance he did every time he flipped an egg and he'd talk in different accents--I'd see the guy who first stopped at the open house. How could I ever tell anyone he made me laugh?

I was always so proud, proud of my strength. I've always been a no-man-is-ever-going-to-change-me girl, but he did. He did change me. I felt like I still had a little flame inside that was me. Like the pilot light on a gas fireplace, flickering in the background, but I worried that it would blow out one day. I still worry it's going to blow out one day.

There are all these books that say we create our own destiny and what we believe is what we manifest. You're supposed to walk around with this perpetual bubble over your head thinking happy thoughts and then everything is going to be sunshine and roses. Nope, sorry, don't think so. You can be as happy as you've ever been in your life, and shit is still going to happen.

But it doesn't just happen. It knocks you sideways and crushes you into the ground, because you were stupid enough to believe in sunshine and roses.

SESSION TEN

Man, did I ever have a big moment last night, Doc. I was asleep--in my bed, which should make you happy--but then I needed to pee, so I stumbled to the bathroom. On my way back I realized what I'd done, and damn if that didn't wake me right up--of course I got so excited, I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

It was just an old habit, going in the middle of the night, but that's good because it means my old routines are coming back, right? And maybe it means I'm coming back. Don't worry, I remember what you said about learning to accept that I'll never be the exact same person I was before the abduction. But still, it's something.

Maybe it worked because I'd been asleep and didn't have a chance to think about it first. I've always liked that expression, "Dance like no one's watching." Say you're at home alone and a funky song comes on the radio, you might start grooving to it a little, feeling good, finding the beat, really getting into it. Your legs are going every which way, your hands are in the air, and you're shaking some serious ass. But as soon as you're out in public somewhere you start thinking everyone is watching you, judging you. You go, Is my ass jiggling too much? Am I in rhythm? Are they laughing at me? Then you stop dancing.

Every single day up on the mountain, I was being tested. If he was happy, I got extra privileges. If I didn't do something fast enough or perfect enough, which wasn't often because I was damn careful, I got slapped or privileges were taken away.

While The Freak was busy evaluating my behavior, I was analyzing his. Even after our talk about his mother I couldn't get a handle on what might set him off, and each situation was a clue to be collected and filed in my memory. Interpreting his needs and wants became my full-time job, so I studied every nuance of his expression, every inflection in his speech.

Years of living with a mother whose sobriety I'd learned to judge by the exact droop of her eyelids had honed my skills, but I'd also learned in mom-school that it's like trying to predict the actions of a tiger--you never know whether you're about to be a playmate or a meal. Everything depended on his mood. Sometimes I could make a mistake and he barely reacted, then I'd commit a lesser offense and he'd totally lose it.

Around March, when I was about six months pregnant, he walked in after one of his hunting trips and said, "I need your help outside."

Outside? As in outdoors? I stared at him, looking for any sign that he was joking or planned on killing me out there, but his face showed no emotion.

He threw one of his coats and a pair of rubber boots at me.

"Put these on."

Before I even had the zipper done up on the coat, he grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door.

The smell of fresh air hit me in the face like I'd walked into a wall, and my chest tightened up with the surprise of it. I tried to check out my surroundings as he led me over to a deer carcass about twenty feet from the cabin, but it was a sunny day and the brightness of the snow made my eyes water. All I could tell was that we were in a clearing.

My whole body stung from the cold. The snow only covered the foot part of my boots, but I wasn't used to being outside and my legs were bare. My eyes started to adjust to the light, but before I could register much of anything, he pushed me to my knees beside the deer's head. Blood still oozed from a hole behind its ear and a slit across its throat that had turned the snow around it pink. I tried to look away, but The Freak turned my face toward the carcass.

"Pay attention. I want you to kneel at the rear of the deer, and after we roll him onto his back, you'll hold his back legs apart while I gut him. Understand?"

I understood what he wanted me to do, I just didn't understand why he was asking--he never had before. Maybe he just wanted me to see what he could do, or more precisely, what he could do to me.

But I nodded and, avoiding the deer's glazed eyes, I moved to crouch in the snow at its hind end and grabbed its stiff back legs. The Freak, smiling and humming, knelt at its head, and we rolled it onto its back.

Even though I knew it was already dead, it bothered me to see the deer look so helpless and undignified on its back with its legs held spread-eagle. I'd never seen a dead animal up close before. Perhaps sensing my distress, the baby moved restlessly.

My stomach heaved as I watched the tip of The Freak's knife slice into the skin at the deer's groin like it was butter. My nose caught the metallic scent of blood as he circled the deer's privates, then slit all along down its stomach. I was struck with an image of his slicing into me with that same serene expression on his face. My body jerked, and he gave me a look.

I whispered, "Sorry," gritted my teeth against the cold, and forced my muscles still. He went back to his humming and slicing.

While he was distracted, I looked around the clearing. A big stand of fir trees surrounded us, their branches weighted down with snow. Footsteps, drag marks, and what looked like the odd drop of blood disappeared around the side of the cabin. The air smelled clean, moist, and the snow crunched under my feet. I've skied on some mountains across Canada, and snow smells different in other areas, drier somehow, and it even feels different. The modest amount of snow and the lay of the land, along with the scent, had me hopeful I was still on the island or at least somewhere on the coast.

The Freak talked to me while he sliced. "It's better for us to eat food off the land, food that's pure and hasn't been touched by humans. When I went into town I bought some new books, so you can learn how to cure meats and can foods. Eventually we'll be completely self-sufficient, and I'll never have to leave you alone."

Not high on my wish list, but I have to say I was excited at the idea of doing something, anything, new.

When he finished slicing the whole deer open, and its stomach sack bulged out, he looked up from the carcass and said, "Have you ever killed, Annie?" As if a knife in his hand wasn't threatening enough, he has to start talking about killing?

"I've never been hunting."

"Answer the question, Annie." We stared at each other over the deer.

"No, I've never killed."

Holding the knife by the very tip of its handle, he swung it back and forth like a pendulum. With every upswing, he repeated, "Never? Never? Never?"

"Never--"

"Liar!" He tossed the knife up, grabbed the handle as it fell, and plunged it into the deer's neck to the hilt. Startled, I lost my grip and fell onto my back in the snow. He didn't say a word as I struggled to sit up. When I was back in a crouched position, I quickly grabbed the deer's legs and braced for him to flip out because I'd fallen, but he just stared at me. Then his gaze dropped to the slit in the deer's stomach, moved to my belly, and met my eyes again. I started babbling.

"I hit a cat with my car when I was a teenager. I didn't mean to, but I was coming home late and I was really tired, and then I heard this thunk, and I saw it spin up in the air. I saw it land and go into the woods, and I pulled over." The Freak kept staring at me and the words kept pouring out.

"I walked in the woods looking for it, and I was crying and calling, 'Kitty, Kitty,' but it was gone. I went home and told my stepdad, and he came with me back to the spot with flash-lights and we looked for like an hour, but we couldn't find it. He told me it was probably fine and had run home. But in the morning, I looked under my car and there was all this blood and fur on my axle."

"I'm impressed," he said with a big smile. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I don't! It was an accident--"

"No, I don't think so. I think you saw his eyes reflect in the headlights and for a moment you wondered what it would feel like. And suddenly you just hated that cat, and then you floored the accelerator. I think the thud when you connected, when you knew you'd hit it, made you feel powerful, made you--"

"NO! No, of course not. I felt terrible--I still feel terrible."

"Would you still feel terrible if the cat was a killer? He was probably out hunting, you realize--have you seen a cat torture its prey? What if the cat was diseased and homeless with no one to love it? Would that make it better, Annie? What if you could tell by looking at it that its owners were abusing it, not giving it enough food, kicking it?" His voice rose. "Maybe you did him a goddamn favor, did you ever think about that?"

It almost seemed like he wanted my approval of something he'd done. Did he want to confess or just fuck with my head? The latter seemed more likely, so I'm not sure which of us was more surprised when I finally spoke.

"Have you ever...have you ever killed a person?"

He reached out and gently caressed the handle of the knife.

"A brave question."

"I'm sorry, I've just never met anyone who's...you know. I've read a lot of books and watched TV and movies, but it's not like talking to a real person who's done it." It was easy to sound genuinely interested--I've always been fascinated with psychology, especially abnormal psychology. Murderers definitely fit that category.

"And if you did talk to, as you say, 'a real person who's done it,' what would you ask?"

"I...I would want to know why. But maybe sometimes they don't know, or don't even understand it themselves?"

It must have been the right answer, because he nodded decisively and said, "Killing is a funny thing. Humans make all these rules about when they consider it to be okay." He gave a quick laugh. "Self-defense? No problem. You find a doctor to say you're insane, and that's okay. A woman kills her husband, but she has PMS? If you have a good enough lawyer, that's okay too."

With his head tilted up at me, he rocked back and forth on his heels in the snow. "What if you knew how things were going to turn out and you could stop it? What if you could see something, something no one else could?"

"Like what?"

"It's a shame you didn't find the cat, Annie. Death is simply an extension of life. And if you witness death, the opening of a new dimension, you become aware of how unnecessary it is to limit yourself in this one."

He still hadn't actually admitted to killing anyone, and I wondered if I should leave it alone for now, but knowing when to pull back has never been one of my strengths.

"So what does it feel like? To kill someone?"

His head cocked to the side and his brows rose. "Planning on killing someone, are we?" Before I could deny it, he continued, but not in the direction I expected. "My mother died of cancer. Ovarian cancer. She rotted from the inside out, and at the end I could smell her dying." He paused for a second, his eyes flat and dead. I was trying to think what to ask next when he said, "I was only eighteen when she got sick--her husband had died a couple of years before--but I didn't mind looking after her. I knew how to take care of her better than anyone. But she wouldn't stop crying for him. Even though I'd told her he left and that he hadn't cared about her, not like I did, all she wanted was for me to find him. After everything I'd done for her.... I saw what he did to her. Saw it with my own eyes, but she cried for him."

"I don't understand, you said he died. What do you mean you told her he left?"

"He'd be gone for months, months, and we'd be fine. And then he'd come home, and I always knew when he was coming, because I helped her put on the dress for him, and she'd wear makeup. I told her I didn't like it, but she said he liked it. He wouldn't even let me eat with them. I know she wanted to feed me, but he made her wait until he was done. I was nothing more to him than a stray dog his wife had brought home from the pound. Later, after dinner, they went into the bedroom and closed the door, but one night, when I was around seven, they didn't close it all the way. And I saw...she was crying. His hands..." His voice drifted off and he stared at nothing.

"Was your dad hitting her?"

I'd noticed before that when he talked about his mom his voice would flatten, and when he answered this time it sounded almost robotic.

"I was gentle...I was always gentle when I touched her. I didn't make her cry. It wasn't right."

"He was hurting her?"

Staring hard at the center of my chest, his eyes vacant, he shook his head back and forth and repeated, "It wasn't right."

He caressed the base of his neck. "She saw me...in the mirror. She saw me." The flesh around his fingers reddened as he tightened his grip on his throat for a second, then he pulled his hand down to rub at his thigh like he was trying to wipe something off his palm.

In a raspy voice he said, "Then she smiled." The Freak's mouth lifted up into a beatific smile, then widened until it was almost a grimace. He held it so long it had to be painful. My heart lurched in my chest.

Finally meeting my eyes, he said, "After that she always left the door open. For years she left the door open."

His voice flattened again. "When I was fifteen she started shaving me too, so I was smooth all over like her, and if I held her too hard in the night she got mad. Sometimes when I had dreams, the sheets...she made me burn them. She was changing."

Careful to keep my voice tender and soft, I said, "Changing?"

"I came home early from school one day. There were sounds from the bedroom. I thought he was on a trip. So I went to the door." He was rubbing at his chest now, like he was having a hard time getting air.

"He was behind her. And another man, a stranger.... I left before she could see me. Waited outside, under the porch--"

He stopped abruptly and after a few beats I said, "Under the porch?"

"With my books. That's where I hid them. I was only allowed to read inside if he was home. When he was gone she said they interfered with our time. If she caught me with one, she ripped the pages out." Now I knew why he was so careful with books.

"An hour later when the men passed over me, I could still smell her on them. They were going for a beer. She was inside--humming." He shook his head. "She shouldn't have let them do those things to her. She was sick. She couldn't see it was wrong. She needed my help."

"So did you? Help her?"

"I had to save her, to save us, before she changed so much I couldn't help her anymore, you see?"

I saw. I nodded.

Satisfied, he continued. "A week later when she was at the store, I asked him to take me for a drive so I could show him an old mine up in the woods." He stared down at the knife in the deer's neck. "When she got home I told her he'd packed all his belongings and left, he'd found someone else. She cried, but I took care of her, just like in the beginning, but this time it was even better because I didn't have to share her. Then she got sick and I did everything for her that she liked, everything she asked. Everything. So when she got sicker and asked me to kill her she thought I would just do it. But I didn't want to. I couldn't. She begged, she said I wasn't a real man, that a real man could have done it. She said he would have done it, but I just couldn't."

While he'd been talking the sun had disappeared and it began to snow--a light dusting of white frosted us and the deer. One of The Freak's blond waves had fallen over his forehead in a curl, and his eyelashes spiked together and sparkled. I wasn't sure if it was from the snow or tears, but he looked angelic.

My thighs ached from holding a crouched position for too long, but there was no way I was asking him if I could stretch. My body may have been motionless, but my mind reeled.

He shook his head, then looked up from the knife.

"So to answer your question, Annie, it can feel great. But we'd better get a move on, or some wild animal is going to smell the fresh blood and come hunting us." His tone of voice was now cheerful.

For a minute I didn't get what question he was talking about. Then I remembered. I'd asked him what it felt like to kill someone.

While I continued to hold the deer's legs, he reached into the slit and gently rolled the stomach sack, about the size of a beach ball, out onto the snow. It was still attached at one end, by something that looked like an umbilical cord, from under the rib cage. He pulled his knife out of the neck--it stuck for a second, then released with a pop. Then he reached back in with the knife and cut out what looked like the deer's heart and organs. He dropped them near the sack like they were garbage. The smell of raw meat churned up bile at the back of my throat, but I choked it down.

He said, "Stay here," and disappeared into a large shed at the side of the cabin. He returned in seconds carrying a small chain saw and some rope. My breath caught in my chest when he knelt at the deer's head. The pristine silence of winter wilderness was shattered by the sound of the saw cutting through the deer's neck. I wanted to look away but I couldn't. He put the saw down, picked up the knife, and walked to the rear of the deer. I flinched as he reached toward me, which made him laugh, but he was only taking the legs from me. Then he used his knife to slice a hole through the ankle, right behind the Achilles tendon on both legs, and threaded the rope through.

We dragged the carcass to the shed, each holding one of its front legs. I glanced back. The deer's body had left a trail of blood behind us and a bloody indentation in the snow. I'll never forget the sight of that poor deer's head, heart, and guts lying out in the cold.

The shed was solid metal--no wild animals welcome--and a big freezer stood against one wall inside. Some sort of machinery that I think was a generator hummed noisily at the back, beside it a pump that must have been for the well. Six big red barrels labeled diesel lined the opposite wall. Next to them was a propane tank. I didn't see any firewood, so I figured it was stored somewhere else. The air smelled like a mixture of oil, gas, and deer blood.

He threw the rope attached to the deer's back legs up over a crossbeam in the ceiling, then we both pulled on it until the carcass was hung. Would my body be hanging up there one day?

I thought that was the end of it, but he started to sharpen the knife on a stone, and I began to tremble violently. Meeting my eyes, he scraped the knife back and forth in a rhythmic motion with a smile playing about his lips. After a minute or so, he held it up.

"What do you think? Sharp enough?"

"For...for what?"

He began to walk toward me. I threw my hands in front of my belly. Awkward in the rubber boots, I stumbled backward.

He stopped, and with a confused expression said, "What's wrong with you? We have to skin it." He cut around each ankle, then took a leg. "Don't just stand there, grab the other one." We rolled the hide down--he had to use his knife to nick at the tissue once in a while to help it along, but mostly just down the legs, and when we reached the main part, it peeled off like dead skin after a sunburn.

When it was off, he rolled it up and put it in the freezer. Then he made me stand outside where he could see me while he collected the saw, put it back in the shed, and locked it up. I asked him what he was going to do with the innards and its head--he said he'd deal with them later.

Back inside, he noticed I was shivering and told me to sit by the fire to warm up. Our talk didn't seem to have upset him. I considered asking if he'd killed anyone else, but my stomach clenched at the thought of hearing his answer. Instead I said, "Can I wash off, please?"

"Is it time for your bath?"

"No, but I--"

"Then you know the answer."

The rest of that day I wore deer blood. It made my skin crawl, but I tried not to think about it, I tried not to think about anything--not blood, dead deer, or murdered fathers. I just focused on the fire and watched the flames dance.

Later that night, as he drifted off to sleep, he said, "I like cats." He liked cats? The murdering sadistic fuck liked cats? A hysterical giggle fought to come out my throat, but I clamped my hand over my mouth in the dark.

SESSION ELEVEN

Got to tell you, Doc, I feel like I'm doing pretty good these days. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to just crawl back into bed, but I grabbed Emma's leash and took her down to the waterfront for a walk. As opposed to up in the woods for one of our usual jaunts designed to guarantee we won't see a soul.

Instead, we were kind of social. Well, Emma was--she has a weakness for smaller dogs, has to stop and smooch all of them. She's hit or miss with the big ones, but show her a poodle and she's in puppy make-out heaven. I'd managed to avoid most human interactions by staring off into the distance, or at the dogs, or at my feet while jerking on her leash to hurry her by, but when she insisted on visiting with a cocker spaniel, I stopped and actually shot the breeze with the owners, an elderly couple. It was standard dog-owner drivel: What's his name? Timber? And how old? But damn, Doc, a couple of weeks ago I'd rather have pushed them into the sea than communicate with them on any level.

When I first came back, I had to stay at my mom's place for a while because my house was rented out, and man, was I relieved they hadn't sold it--just another lie The Freak fed me. Fortunately I was so paranoid about ever losing my house that I'd just taken the entire commission from a house sale and placed it in a separate account so I'd have a year's worth of mortgage payments banked. The mortgage company just kept taking their payments out, month after month, and I suppose when my bank account was drained they'd have foreclosed.

I asked Mom where my things were, and she said, "We had to sell it all, Annie. How do you think we came up with the money for your search? Most of the donations went for your reward. We had to use all the rental money too." She sure wasn't kidding--they sold everything. I keep expecting to see some chick walking around in my leather coat.

My car was a lease, and once the cops processed it, it went straight back to the dealership. Now I'm driving that piece of shit out there until I figure out what I want to do--a fancy car doesn't seem that important anymore.

I had a lot of savings, but all my bills were on direct withdraw, so I don't have much left. My office gave Mom my paychecks from some deals that closed after I was abducted. She tried to cash them so they could add to the reward money, which has now gone to charity, but they wouldn't let her so she had to deposit them into my account--good thing, or my whole life would've folded.

A few days ago I was cuddling with Emma on the couch when my phone rang. I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, but I saw Mom's number on the call display and knew if I didn't answer, she'd just keep calling.

"How's my Annie Bear today?"

"Fine." I wanted to tell her I was tired because the night before--the fifth night in a row I slept in my bed--a branch scratched against my window, and I spent the rest of the night in my closet, wondering if I was ever going to feel safe again.

"Listen, I have some great news--Wayne has come up with an amazing business idea. I can't tell you any details until it's finalized, but he's on to something big."

You'd think eventually they'd realize the guy just doesn't have the Midas touch. I almost feel sorry for Wayne sometimes. He's not a bad man or even stupid, he's just one of those guys who really wants to be something, but instead of putting the pedal to the metal and driving forward, he's too busy trying to figure out the quickest route there and just ends up going in circles.

When I was a kid he took me with him a couple of times when he went to pitch a new investment idea. I was embarrassed for him--he stood right in people's faces as he was speaking, and when they tried to lean away, he talked louder. For the first few days after a meeting he'd walk around the house all happy, checking his phone messages a million times, and he and Mom would stay up drinking and toasting themselves. Nothing ever came through.

Once in a while he did something that made me think he might not be a total loser. Like when I was fifteen there was a concert I really wanted to go to, and I spent a whole weekend collecting bottles around town. On Monday--the day the tickets had to be bought--I turned them in but I didn't even have close to the amount I needed. I locked myself in my room and cried. After I finally surfaced, I found an envelope under my door with Wayne's handwriting on the front and a ticket inside. When I tried to thank him, he just flushed and said, "Don't worry about it."

As soon as I started making good money in real estate I tried to help them out--new tires, new computer, new fridge, even just cash for bills and groceries. In the beginning it felt good to give them a hand, but then I realized it was like throwing money down a hole--a hole that drained right into the next dumbass business scheme. After I bought my house I couldn't afford to help as much, so I sat them down and explained how they could set up a bud get. Mom just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. They must be getting by somehow, because their lifestyle sure hasn't changed.

Mom noticed my lack of enthusiasm on the phone and broke into my thoughts. "You haven't said anything."

"Sorry, I hope it works out for him."

"I have a good feeling about this one."

"That's what you said last time."

She was silent for a moment, then said, "I really don't appreciate your negative attitude, Annie. After everything that man did for you while you were missing--after everything we both did--the least you could do is show a little more interest."

"I'm sorry. I'm just not in a very good mood right now."

"Maybe if you left your house once in a while instead of moping around all day, you'd be more pleasant to talk to."

"Not likely. Whenever I do try to leave, some dickhead reporter is jumping all over me, not to mention Hollywood agents with their bullshit offers."

"They're just trying to make a living, Annie. If it wasn't for those reporters you hate so much paying you for interviews, you wouldn't have anything to live on yourself, would you?"

Leave it to Mom to make me feel like I was the asshole. Especially when she was right--the vultures were funding my living expenses now that my savings were almost gone. But I still couldn't get used to the process, or seeing myself in print and on-screen. Mom saved every newspaper clipping from every interview--finally her chance to have a scrap-book for me--and taped every show. She gave me copies, but I watched only two of them and shoved the rest in a drawer.

"Your fifteen minutes are almost over, Annie. What are you going to do for money then? How are you going to keep your house?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Like what?"

"Something, Mom, I'll think of something." What was I going to do? My stomach twisted into knots.

"You know, an agent isn't such a bad idea. They might be able to get you some up-front money."

"You mean get themselves some money. One I talked to wanted me to sign away all my rights--if I'd listened to him the movie people could've done whatever they wanted."

"So talk to a producer yourself, then."

"I don't want to talk to any of them, Mom. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"Jesus, Annie, I just asked a simple question, you don't have to take my head off."

"Sorry." I took a deep breath. "Maybe I do need to get out more. We better talk about something else before I totally lose it." I forced a laugh. "So how's your garden doing?"

Two things Mom loves talking about--gardening and cooking. They're also two things that take a lot of TLC, always a lot easier for my mom to lavish on food and plants than on me.

When I was a kid, I actually remember being jealous of her roses--the way she talked to them, touched them, checked on them all the time, and was so proud when one of them won a ribbon at the local fair. It was bad enough I had a sister who was a prizewinner, not to mention a cousin, but how the hell do you compete with roses? Sometimes I wondered if it was because she could follow recipes or shape plants and everything turned out the way she wanted--unlike most things in life, especially kids.

She did try to teach me to cook, though, and I wanted to learn--but my lack of any cooking ability was only exceeded by my lack of a green thumb. Hell, I couldn't even keep a hanging basket alive before the mountain. That all changed there, when spring hit around the middle of April and The Freak started letting me outside to plant a garden.

I was around seven months pregnant the first time, and my eyes felt like they were going to explode with spring's light and beauty. When I took that first breath of clean mountain air--all I'd smelled in months was wood smoke and cedar walls--my nostrils tingled with the scent of fir trees in the sun, wildflowers, and the moss-covered earth at my feet. I wanted to lie down and grind my face into it. Hell, I wanted to eat it.

If I was farther north or off the island, I figured there'd still be snow, but it was warming up and everything was lush and green in every shade you could imagine--sage, emerald, pine, moss--the air even smelled green. I couldn't tell if it was comforting to know that I was probably close to home or if that made it worse.

He didn't let me go very far from the cabin the first time but he couldn't stop my eyes from exploring. The trees encircling us were so dense I couldn't see if there were any other mountains around. A few grassy spots showed through the moss carpeting of the clearing, but it was mostly just moss and rock. Must have been hard to drill a septic tank up here, not to mention a well, but I figured we were probably pulling from the river. At the forest's edge I saw some stumps, so they'd logged up here in the past. I couldn't see a road, but there had to be an access point close by.

The river was on the right side of the cabin--where the raised garden beds were--and down a bit of a hill. It was a beautiful jade color, and judging by some areas where the current calmed down and the water turned such a dark green it was almost black, it had some deep swimming holes.

From the outside, the cabin looked cute with its shutters and window planter boxes. Two rocking chairs rested side by side on the covered front porch. Maybe a husband and wife had built the cabin together years ago. I wondered about this woman who liked window planter boxes and brought soil in for a garden. I wondered how she'd feel about who was living in the cabin now.

I went into labor while I was gardening. He'd been letting me out--supervised, of course--to water and weed around the vegetables, which were looking great, and I could have spent all day working in the garden. I didn't even care when he decided I hadn't done something right and made me do it all over again, since that just meant I could stay out longer. The sensation of digging into cool dirt--which I could still feel through the gloves he made me wear to protect my perfect nails--and the scent of freshly turned earth sure beat being locked in the cabin with him.

I was intrigued by the idea that the tiny seeds I'd planted were growing into carrots, tomatoes, beans, while I was growing my own seed in my belly. Technically it was partly his seed, but I didn't let myself think about that. I was getting good at not thinking about stuff.

The one thing I could never seem to shut out was my ache for simple, affectionate touch. I never knew how essential it was to my well-being until I didn't have Emma to snuggle, Luke to cuddle, or even one of my mom's rare hugs. Affection from Mom always seemed an afterthought on her part, unless it was given as a reward, which always left me feeling manipulated and angry at myself for wanting her warmth so much.

The only time my mom's touches were given freely was when I was sick and she dragged me everywhere, talking to doctors and pharmacists about each symptom in embarrassing detail, her arm around my shoulder and her small hands pressing against my forehead. I never said anything, I liked it too much. She even slept with me when I was ill, and to this day the scent of Vicks VapoRub reminds me of the warm weight of her small body next to me, which felt reassuring and solid.

Whenever The Freak walked by he'd grab me for a hug, pat my stomach, or run his hand along my back, and he still cuddled me every night. In the beginning his touch disgusted me, but as the months passed I became disconnected enough that sometimes I was able to hug back and feel nothing. Other times, the ache for touch was so strong I'd find myself leaning into his embrace with my eyes shut tight, pretending it was someone I loved, and hating myself for it.

I wondered why his skin didn't reek of the rot in his soul. Sometimes I'd catch the clean fragrance of the laundry detergent we used--a natural biodegradable brand--on his clothes, and for a few minutes after the shower I could smell the faint scent of soap on his hands and skin, but it would fade quickly. Even when he'd been working, I couldn't smell the outside world on him--fresh air, grass, pitch, fir needles, anything--let alone sweat. Even scent particles didn't want to touch him.

Water had to be brought up from the river in a bucket for the garden every day, but I didn't mind because it was a chance to run my hands through its cool currents and splash my face. It was almost the middle of June, and I figured I had to be close to nine months, but I was so huge I sometimes wondered if I was past due--I didn't know exactly when I got pregnant, so it was hard to calculate. On this particular day I dragged a big bucket of water up the hill and began to lift it up to pour over the plants, but it was warm out and I'd been working pretty hard, so sweat dripped into my eyes. I set the bucket down to catch my breath.

As I massaged my back with one hand, a cramp crawled across my belly. I ignored it at first and tried to lift the bucket back up. The pain hit again, worse this time. Knowing he'd be pissed if I didn't finish my chores, I took a deep breath and watered the rest of the garden bed.

When I was done I found him on the porch fixing a board and said, "It's time." We went back inside, but not before he checked to make sure the watering was finished. Soon as we walked into the cabin, I felt a whooshing inside me, a weird sensation of something letting go, and then warm fluid poured down my legs, onto the floor.

The Freak had read all those books with me, so he knew what was going to happen, but he looked horrified and froze at the entrance to the cabin. I stood in a puddle with stuff dripping down my legs and waited for him to snap out of it. But as the blood drained from his face, I realized I might be waiting awhile. Even though I was scared to death, I had to calm him down. I needed his help.

"It's totally normal--my body's supposed to do that--everything will be okay." He started pacing, partway into the cabin, then out, then in again. I had to get him to focus.

"May I have a bath?" Baths help with menstrual cramps, and I figured I had time--the contractions didn't seem that close together. He just stopped and stared at me wild-eyed.

"Is it okay? I think it would help." Still mute, he raced to the bathroom and ran a bath for me. I was getting the feeling he would have agreed to anything at that point.

"Don't make it too hot, I don't know if heat would be good for the baby." Once the tub was full, I eased my huge body into the warm water.

The Freak leaned against the counter in the bathroom, his eyes darting all over the place, looking at everything but me. His hands clenched and unclenched as if they were grasping at the air. This control freak stood trembling, tongue-tied, like a teenager on his first date.

In a gentle, even tone of voice I said, "I need you to move the bedding off the bed and put some towels down, okay?"

He raced out of the room, then I heard him moving around by the bed. To calm myself down, I tried to remember everything I'd read in the books and concentrated on my breathing instead of the fact that I was about to give birth in a cabin with no one but a freaked-out Freak to help me. The beads of water on the side of the bathtub became my focal point, and I counted the seconds it took them to drip down. When the water was lukewarm, almost cool, and the contractions were closer together, I called him--he'd been hiding out in the other room.

With his help I got out of the tub and dried off. The contractions were hitting hard and fast by this point and I had to lean on him so I didn't fall. When we walked back into the room, I stumbled and gripped his arm while white-hot pain wrenched my belly. The cabin was cold, and goose bumps broke out on my skin.

"Why don't you get a fire going while I get myself onto the bed?"

After I settled myself down and put a pillow behind my shoulders, I don't remember too much other than a lot of pain--most women get the option of drugs, and trust me, I'd have gone with that option. The Freak was like a sitcom husband, pacing around and wringing his hands and putting them over his ears every time I screamed--which was often. While I writhed around on the bed, chewing on the fucking pillow, he was in the corner at one point with his whole head tucked between his knees. He even left the cabin for a while, but I started screaming "HELP ME!" so loud he came back.

All the books said to start bearing down when I could feel I was close, but hell, everything in my body was telling me to push. I propped my back against the wall and pressed into it so hard I must have had welts from the logs on my back. With my hands on my knees, I spread my legs, gritted my teeth, and pushed. When I could breathe, I ordered him around. The more in control I was, the more he seemed to calm down--control being a loose term, considering I was covered in sweat and screaming out every order in between pushes.

A lot of the actual birth is hazy, but I think I was in labor for a few hours--a lucky first-timer, and one of the few things on the mountain I had to be thankful for. I do remember that when I made him stay between my legs and help the baby out, his face was pale and covered with sweat, and I wondered what the hell he was sweating about since I was doing all the work. I didn't give a flying fuck about his feelings or mine--I just wanted this thing out of me.

When the baby finally came through, it hurt like a son of a bitch but it felt so good at the same time. Through eyes blurry from sweat dripping into them, I glimpsed The Freak holding the baby away from him in the air like he did with my rags. Shit, he didn't know what to do next. And the baby hadn't cried yet.

"You have to clean the face off and lay the baby on my stomach."

I closed my eyes and let my head loll to the side.

The tiniest of whimpers turned into really loud wails, and my eyes flew open. God, it was such an incredible sound. It was the first live creature I'd heard other than him in ten months, and I started crying. When I lifted my arms up, he handed the baby to me quickly, as though relieved to be free of the responsibility.

A girl. I hadn't even thought to ask. A slimy, bloody, wet, wrinkly girl. I'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"Hi, sweetie, welcome to the world," I said. "I love you," I whispered against her little forehead, then softly kissed it.

I glanced up and he was staring down at us. He didn't look scared anymore, he looked pissed off. Then he turned and left the cabin.

As soon as he left I passed the afterbirth. I tried to wriggle farther up the bed to get away from the wetness, but I was already near the wall, and when I tried to inch sideways, every movement hurt. So I lay there in an exhausted sticky mess with the baby on my belly. The cord needed to be cut. If he didn't come back soon, I was going to have to try to bite it off.

While I waited, I checked her over and counted all her toes and fingers. She was so small and delicate, and although her hair was ridiculously soft and silky, it was as dark as mine. Once in a while she whimpered, but when I rubbed my thumb on her cheek, she quieted.

He came back after about five minutes, and as he came toward me I was glad to see he didn't look pissed off anymore, just disinterested. Then I looked away from his face and realized he was holding his hunting knife.